Shining among Darkness
by WingzemonX
Summary: Dr. Matilda Honey has dedicated her whole life to helping children, especially those with The Shining, children with special abilities as she was. Following this mission, Matilda is called to Eola Psychiatric Hospital to interview a girl who, more than special, many calls evil: Samara Morgan. [Multicrossover of several films and series][Translated from Spanish]
1. 01 The Subject

**Previous Notes:**

 _Hello everyone. I am **WingzemonX** , and it is my first attempt to translate one of my stories into **English**. So, give me some patience in that area. I know that everything will be full of errors and strange sentences, but I will try to do better with time. If someone prefers, you can always read the original **Spanish** version._

 _The story you are about to read is maybe the most ambitious **Multicrossovers** I've ever done, for the number of movies and series it's going to involve. I can't tell you right now all since maybe it would bring some **Spoilers** , but as they appear in the story, I will point and explain about in the **Author's Notes**. However, how you can intuit by the summary (and the title), at least three movies are involved: **Matilda** , the film from **1996** ; **The Ring** , **2002** film; and **The Shining** , **1980** film. But I assure you these won´t be the only ones; there will be several more that will be intertwined._

 _For the most part, I think it can be read without any problem, and without having seen any of the films or series involved, as if it were an entirely independent story (or at least that is why I have tried to do). Of course, there will be many winks and references to the original material, which only those who have seen it will be able to understand. But you know, if you have any doubts, you can ask me anything freely._

 _There is one more thing I want to say before begin with **Chapter 01**. Several of the characters that will be the protagonists, in their original material we knew them as children, twelve or ten years old, or even much younger than that. However, some of these children here would be presented as adults, twenty years older than the last time we saw them, or even many more. In the same way, their physical descriptions will be, obviously, different, but so will their personalities. We will agree that everyone is different from thirty to six, or even sixteen to five. Therefore, their personalities in this story would be something like my interpretation of how they could be grown up, also considering the direction and role they will have here. It is to warn you, and not feel I am using Out of Character or something similar._

 _Without further ado, I leave you with the first chapter. I remain attentive to your comments and opinions._

* * *

 **Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 01.  
** **The subject**

It was not the first time Dr. Matilda Honey visited the wet and cold Oregon. The first one was during her high school years, to attend a congress of young readers in Portland. At that time, she was a small dwarf of thirteen, or perhaps twelve, walking between a sea of fifteen and sixteen years old giants. However, although her work had led her to tour different parts of the country in the past, it rarely took her to the West Coast since she settled in Boston. The times when she went to those time zones, were used to be at holidays, when she took a plane to go from end to end, from Massachusetts to California, where her mother lived —in fact, adoptive mother.

She was considering taking advantage of this trip and down from that wet and cloudy spot, towards the warm and sunny Arcadia, to spend a few days with her mother, in the same old, but remodeled, white house from the beginning of the past century. Of course, that would be once she had a place in the affair that had brought her there at first.

She rented a car at Portland Airport, and drove almost 50 miles to the southwest, direct to Salem. The rain caught her halfway down the I-5, and that slowed her progress a bit. She was not a complete fan of driving on the wet pavement, especially on the highway. She arrived at the Grand Hotel in Salem a little after eighteen and a half, but only to register and leave his suitcase in room, and minutes later was back on the road.

After flying seven hours, plus the car trip that added an extra hour, anyone would only want to lie in bed to rest and leave any theme to solve for the next day. But Matilda Honey wasn't anyone. She had a date at seven o'clock, and planned to attend without fail; not for nothing had scheduled it that way, calculating the time that would take all the trip.

Take advantage of every second; a very adult mentality, which she did not take long to assimilate while growing up. Get high grades and skip years, to the point of finishing her postgraduate in Yale at age twenty-two, had not done so lying in bed and resting, for sure.

Her final destination was the community of Eola, which was about six miles from Salem, on Route 22. It was one of those points on the map that many would describe as _in the middle of nowhere_ constituted for only a few houses and few shops. The highlight of that site was undoubtedly the Psychiatric Hospital, built in times when people wanted to have their mental as far away as possible. Although that, it had not changed much.

She called there to notify she was on the way, but it took her longer to communicate with the person she was going to meet than arrives at the place. She parked in the narrow parking lot in front of the three-story white building. Its facade already needed a remodeling, after years of erosion almost guaranteed by the constant rains.

The water did not fall so hard when she got out of the car but was enough to have to cross the small stretch between it and the entrance door covered with her sky-blue umbrella, with white clouds print. It definitely did not make her look very professional, but it had been a gift from one of her children, and that was enough.

Her children.

From time to time, she found herself thinking in that expression, and sometimes even using it when she spoke. The right thing would be to tell them _her patients_ ; _her children_ was a term more used by her mother to refer to her students. But both cases were not the same.

She entered through the front door, not without first draining the umbrella to wet as little as possible the floor. Then, she walked down a long corridor with chairs at the sides and the most cliché: a flickering fluorescent lamp on the ceiling. In the end, there was a small reception module, where a skinny young girl with blond hair, in a green nurse suit, was watching her cell phone with interest. She had it hidden, behind the small bar that separated her from the visitors, but it was apparent because of her eyes and movements.

The hallway was all alone, and the sound of her low heels against the shiny polyurethane floor resounded with a clear echo. Matilda stood front the young lady at reception, and she barely raised her face enough to look at her. Despite the makeup she wore, more than one would expect in a nurse on duty, her tired expression, dark eye bags, and slightly reddish eyes, were not completely disguised.

"Good evening," Matilda said in a neutral tone, but cordial enough. "I am Dr. Matilda Honey of Eleven Foundation. Dr. Scott is waiting for me. We have a date at seven o'clock."

The nurse did not even mutate. He lowered his gaze, again only the necessary, to the screen of his hidden cell phone.

"There are still fifteen minutes left," she informed her as if it were the most obvious, but elusive, revelation in the world.

Matilda took a deep breath.

"I know, it was a bit early." That statement depended heavily on whom you asked because in her original plan she was supposed to arrive at the hotel with enough time to take a bath and rest even for an hour. "Could you check if he could receive me right now?"

She paused for a moment as if the answer to that question were difficult for her to process. Matilda wondered if that lethargy was due to stress, lack of sleep, or perhaps to the effect of some improper substance; she hoped it was not the last one. In the end, the nurse reached for her desk phone, and pressed the receiver between her shoulder and left ear. Her hands were flipping through a small brown notebook on her work area, searching the extension number, maybe.

"Wait a minute, please. The doctor will be here soon."

Her tone didn't convey much confidence, but Matilda obeyed and sat down on one of the chairs in the hallway. She placed her briefcase on the floor at her feet, and her handbag in the next chair, and waited.

She waited more than she thought.

The fifteen minutes that separated her from the agreed time passed relatively fast. The following, no so much anymore. Every time she turned to see the blonde nurse, she had her eyes on her cell and showed no interest in the time she's already been sitting there.

Matilda decided that it was an excellent opportunity to check her cell too: an iPhone 7, a Christmas gift from her mother, which she had not told her the price, but Matilda was sure that it was excessive. Although her eagerness to learn and learn made her enthusiastically embrace the computer boom and the arrival of the internet when she was still young, it seemed that the generation gap was finally reached her, with this so-called _smartphones_. Even so, she was the first to accept her usefulness in matters of communication, and to be alert to her patients and her mother.

She checked a couple of new e-mails that had come while she was flying, none important, and about three hundred messages from _WhatsApp_ and _Messenger_ ; the majority, equally not very relevant. The most important was a message from Jane Wheeler, head of the foundation she represented on that trip so you could say she was somehow her boss; although in reality, she was much more than that. The message just asked her how she was and how the trip had been. Matilda replied everything had been excellent and was waiting for them to let her get in. The reply was sent but not read at that time. It did not surprise her; it must have been past ten o'clock in Indiana, and it was Monday. They had agreed to speak on Wednesday, so for the moment she only had to inform her that had arrived safely.

Once she finished checking all her messages, there was still no sign of movement. The wait lasted until twenty past seven. She was about to stand up and ask the young lady for explanations, when a few quiet steps from the left aisle, which likewise reached the reception area, were present in the sepulchral silence.

A tall man in a white coat appeared on the other side of the corner, and he went to the nurse for a few seconds, who quickly used her irritated to point in Matilda's direction. The man with broad shoulders, a square head, and short black hair turned to look at her curiously through his large round, thick-framed glasses. To Matilda, his appearance seemed curious; it was as if he intentionally wanted to show himself as a sitcom character from the eighties, those who from time to time repeated on television, late at night.

The man approached her, sketching the one Matilda thought was the most genuine smile he could make at that moment, but it was patently false.

"Miss Honey?" He asked in a jovial tone, standing beside her and thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat. Matilda had already risen from her chair, and at that moment she placed her bag on her shoulder.

"Doctor" she corrected him, more sharply than she had originally intended; perhaps the annoyance of the long wait had influenced. "Dr. Honey, please."

The man, who by the hanging tag of his right pocket knew that was indeed Dr. John Scott, looked her up and down after this clarification.

"Of course," he said slowly, more like an involuntary gesture than a real comment. "You are much younger than I expected."

"People tell me that often."

And they did it, really.

Dr. Scott cleared his throat a little and then turned in the direction he was coming.

"Well, this way, please."

He started to walk, and she followed him. Their footsteps echoed in the silent hallway.

"Everything is almost ready," Scott informed quietly, "and the subject has been informed you will talk to her. She seemed to be… moderately interested in it."

Matilda did not externalize anything visible or audible, but the way he had pronounced _the subject_ had annoyed her considerably. When a person went from being a patient to being a _subject_ , it is a sign that something is not right.

"I hope you have been able to review all the information we gave you about the case, and it has been useful to prepare you."

"I got all the information I need at the moment," Matilda answered without any trouble, "including the data that you deliberately omitted or decided to ignore in the reports you sent us."

These words took John Scott by surprise, and stopped him dead in his place; Matilda advanced a few more steps, before realizing it and stopping as well.

"Excuse me?" exclaimed John, incredulously, which provoked a smile of slight satisfaction on the lips of the Californian girl.

"I excuse you," she answered calmly, just before turning back to the path they followed and continuing the advance. She seemed to want to imply she knew exactly where to go. Dr. Scott followed her, a few steps behind. "I need the first sessions to be private, only the girl and me. Without a third person, without cameras, without microphones, and without people looking at the other side of the mirror."

"I don't think so."

"It was not a request."

That was maybe enough to test the tolerance of the good doctor, because at that moment he came forward and stood right in front of her, cutting off the path. Just until then Matilda becomes aware of how tall that man was in comparison to her; at most, she reached the middle of his chest, and he was a little stooped toward her as if he wanted to intimidate her that way. His face, moreover, had let go of any trace of false or true hospitality he had had until a few moments ago.

John Scott took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses with his thick hands, and then began to speak with the utmost tranquility that his very obvious annoyance allowed.

"Let's make it very clear, Doctor." Sarcasm was strongly attached to that last word. "This girl is my patient, and this is my research. If I agreed to let you see her, it was just for mere courtesy. But whatever you get from your talk, you must share it with my team and me." Then he pressed his breast with the right thumb of his hand; Matilda thought for a moment in the big and hairy fingers of some primate. "Are we clear?"

"Like the crystal," she answered with complete calm. Even so, it seemed that the answer had been enough for him because he was quickly ready to turn his back and keep walking. However, Matilda's voice, no longer as quiet as it had been at first, made him stay at only intentions. "But now let me make something clearer."

She stepped fearlessly toward him, facing him without hesitation.

"I am not here to support your research, neither you nor your team. I am here at the direct request of Mr. Morgan, and my sole purpose is to help this girl, whom, from what I had seen, you have endeavored to treat like a laboratory rat during her stay here. And I don't know who you want to fool, because we both know that this supposed _'courtesy'_ is just because Mr. Morgan warned you to accept our presence here or he would remove the girl from this place. And by the way, we both know that in all this time you have not been able to get something from her with all your... experiments and methods from over thirty years ago, and you want to see if we can make some progress that you don't. So, as a _thank you_ for your openness, and as a professional _courtesy,_ I will provide you with all the information I get and feel is relevant or necessary for your research, but no more. And if I feel for a single moment that the best thing for the girl is to get her out of here, I will not hesitate to convey that feeling to her father."

She paused for a moment. Took a deep breath through her nose, still holding her gaze, and concluded.

"After saying that, I repeat: I need the first sessions to be private; only the girl and me. Are we clear?"

The first visible reaction in John Scott was several stammering, undoubtedly involuntary. Then he cleared his throat tightly and flattened his tie insistently with his large hands.

"All right," he said after a moment. "Let's continue…"

He resumed the march, now with much more hurry. Although he radiated mostly tranquility, a watchful eye would undoubtedly detect that dose of annoyance that had added to its already poor disposition, disguised as a _courtesy_.

That sure would not make things simpler.

Before following him, Matilda took a few seconds to take a deep breath, and then let the air out in a heavy sigh. Perhaps she had outdone herself a little with his defensive attitude, but many times she had had no choice. It was complicated for her at times that people outside the Foundation, or the kind of people used to help, would take her seriously. Her small and slender complexion, accompanied by her face that radiated a much more childish air than she should have at the age twenty-seven, made people, especially grown men considerably older than her, look down at her with disdain. And when that happens, prostrating before them, and even with a little aggressiveness, has been the only measure that works. If not, and if the situation deserved it really, there were always other methods; her first school principal had lived them in own flesh.

 _When a person is bad, that person has to be taught a lesson_ , his father had told her many years ago. Perhaps the only real wisdom that man gave her, though she was sure that it was not his intention.

Her guide took her to another long hallway, but it had no way out. On the left side, there were four wooden doors, all with a magnetic card reader mounted on the wall beside it. On the right side, there were four chairs, just like the ones in the reception waiting area; all four were empty.

"Please, wait here a few minutes," Scott said, heading for the last door.

"I thought everything was ready."

"Almost. I think I had said that everything was almost ready."

With that one explanation, Scott put his badge on the reader, and a _beep_ , followed by a _click_ on the door, indicated that it was open. He hurried inside and closed it behind him before Matilda made an attempt to even look on the other side.

She had no choice but to sit down again and wait.

It was not one of her primary abilities, but she had the feeling that wait would not be short.

* * *

The room to which John Scott had gotten so hastily was narrow and with rectangular form. Left-handed just inside, there was a large window that practically covered the entire wall on that side. Through it, anyone could see the adjoining room, at least three times larger, square, with walls, ceilings, and entirely white floors; a person was sitting in the middle of that other room.

In front of the glass, there were two desks, placed next to each other and on each the monitors of two computers, in addition to their keyboards and mouse devices. In these monitors, the same scene of the room visible by the glass was repeated. In turn, in front of each desk, there was a chair. The one closest to the front door was empty. The other was occupied by another man with glasses and white coat, though dark-haired and, apparently, several years younger than John Scott, but perhaps about ten years older than the woman who waited in the hall.

As soon as he entered, that other doctor turned to him with curiously. The annoyance that Matilda had noticed also seemed to have been quite evident to this other man.

"How did it go, Dr. Scott?" He questioned him without many curtsies. "How is the mysterious genius doctor who comes to solve this complicated puzzle?"

Scott snorted, amused and jaded by the comment. His attention focused on the other room, but more specifically on the person sitting there, his hands on his legs, and his gaze on the floor.

"She barely doubles her age," he pointed out. "And she's a complete diva. In addition to letting her come here and see the subject, she dares to put conditions. As if we were the ones who called her."

The younger doctor smiled.

"Do you think she has experience with cases like this for real?"

"Of course not," Scott said immediately. "This Eleven Foundation, or whatever they call themselves, is just another group of baggers on the backs of people's fears. If they had the experience and knowledge of other subjects like this, do not you think they had already published something about it long ago? Or have they been able to prove it publicly? No one had ever been so close to scientifically proving the existence of real psychic abilities as we do, and I will not let this little girl who plays to be psychiatrist take the credit."

He inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying to calm down.

Scott looked once more time at the person on the other side of the glass; she was still in the same position, not moving at all; barely blinking every few minutes.

"But let's see if we can get anything good out of this. Maybe she'll open up more to someone like this doctor. She has a… warmer air, to put it one way. But not with adults, that's for sure."

The other doctor didn't comment to contradict or reaffirm his remark, and instead, he merely nodded.

"Won't you let her in?"

Scott glanced at the time at the bottom of the nearest monitor and corroborated it with his watch.

"Let her wait a little longer," he added with certain wickedness in his tone.

* * *

Matilda knew she would have to pay some price for her little outburst if that was the right way to describe it. It was only a few minutes since she met Dr. Scott. But, if she relied on her experience of similar situations in the past and the way he had wanted to make his point _clear_ , she could see that he was the kind of man who did not like a woman, especially one so young, to try to impose on him. No matter how openly many people wanted to present themselves, everyone still had old ideas that governed, even unconsciously, their behavior.

She was accustomed to it, and for the sake of the work she had gone to do, which was what mattered most at the time, she was willing to try to leave things in peace as much as possible, and wait there for the time that the good Dr. John, _"I command here"_ , Scott thought it right.

However, she did not think that such a price would be so long. He had her waiting for a little more than half an hour, without giving any small sign of life. She had arrived at the Hospital before seven o'clock, but it was not until a little before eight o'clock that the door through which Dr. Scott had departed opened and he went out again, now apparently with a much better mood.

"Sorry for being late. Now you can pass."

"Sure," was the only thing the young doctor had whispered from her lips. She had many other things in mind that would have liked to share, but preferred to keep them; at least for the moment.

John went to the door next to the one he had just used, and likewise passed his badge on the reader lying on the wall beside him. The door locks swung open, and he pushed it in with one hand, letting the path free.

"I remind you what I told you about privacy, Dr. Scott," Matilda remarked just as she began to move toward the interior of the room. "From what I discovered, I think she can tell me very easily if you're keeping your word or not. True?"

John was slightly startled by these words, which seemed more like a threat. Matilda was aware of it a second after she had said it, but she did not regret it at all.

She would find out later how he would charge her for that.

Once she entered and left barely enough of the door, she heard how it closed tightly behind her, and the locks were put back on. The room she had just entered was square, a little broad, perhaps five meters by five meters. The walls and ceiling were all painted white, and accompanied by the bright white light that hung from the ceiling they made the whole place shine almost unreal as if it comes from some strange dream. On the wall on her right side, there was a large mirror, which was sure to be double-sided. It certainly looked out on the room where John Scott had gone for half an hour to... God only knew what, to make time. Play solitaire, maybe. People play solitaire still?

In front of the mirror, there was a wooden desk, with a chair on one side. There was also a video camera, mounted on a tripod. And right in the middle was what had brought Matilda to that place.

Sitting on a chair, just like the one behind the desk, was a girl, white-faced, very white. Her head was slightly crouched, but she still looked at her, though her left eye was almost covered by her long straight black hair that fell forward on her shoulders. Her eyes were all black, and underneath these were dark eye bags, an obvious result of some days unable to sleep well. She wore a long hospital white gown and black sandals. She was a little older, twelve or no more than thirteen. She had her hands, thin and fragile in appearance, perched on his legs. What she could see from the look on his face, it seemed cold, slightly cold, almost touching the aggressive feel.

The pallor of his face, his dark eye bags, and the moody vibe she carried around her, were signs of fatigue, annoyance, and perhaps bother. And it was not for less considering the place where she was, and not just for that strange room.

Matilda's face and attitude changed utterly at that moment. She went from being in a practically defensive state to take a much calmer and relaxed posture.

"Hello, how are you?" She nodded without hesitation, sketching her first sincere smile that night. "This is not the nicest place to talk, is it? It would have been better to sit in the cafeteria while we ate and drank something. Do you think the same as me?"

In spite of Matilda's natural cheerfulness, she gave no sign of a response. Instead, the girl stayed frozen, barely looking at her or noticing her presence. It didn't surprise her; she prepared herself with the idea that it would not be simple.

Matilda went to the table cautiously; the girl followed her with her gaze, barely moving the neck. Matilda left his briefcase and handbag on the desk and then she turned around it. For a moment it seemed like she would take a seat in the chair but, instead, she took it with his right hand, and without uttering a word she began to drag it for the floor toward the center of the room. The chair screeched hard against the floor, almost as if she was doing it by the way. Only at that moment, Matilda could notice a small signal of reaction at the face of that child, although it was practically a gesture of confusion.

Matilda placed the chair right front the other one.

"Can I sit down?" She asked cheerfully, still smiling.

The little girl looked at her out of the corner of her eye and just shrugged in response. Although it was a response of notorious indifference, she decided to take it as consent and sit down.

She adjusted her long olive-green skirt, crossed her legs, and gazed at the little girl in front of her. As soon as Matilda laid her big and bright blue eyes on that pale and stoic face of her, the girl turned away quickly, somewhat intimidated by the sudden closeness maybe.

"My name is Matilda. What's your name?"

"You already know that miss," the dark-eyed girl suddenly snapped.

Well, that was progress. Matilda was surprised to hear that her voice was much softer and sweeter than her almost threatening appearance might suggest.

"You can call me Matilda simply. And maybe I do, but I'd like you to tell me it yourself. You know, to get to know us better."

The girl looked at her in silence. Though her gaze was still as cold as when she entered the room, Matilda could see how she hesitated between answering her or not. Her fingers, even on their legs, crossed and rubbed together. Nerve sign?

"Samara," she whispered slowly after several seconds of silence. "My name is Samara Morgan..."

 **END OF CHAPTER 01**

 **Author Notes:**

— ** _Matilda Honey_** _is based entirely on the respective character of the film **Matilda** of **1996**. Initially, she was only **6 and a half years old** , whereas here she would already be between **26** and **27 years**. Her original surname was **Wormwood** , but here it is speculated that she changed it to **Honey** at some point after being adopted at the end of the events of the film._

— ** _Samara Morgan_** _is almost wholly based on the respective character of the films **The Ring** of **2002** , **The Ring 2** of **2005** and **Rings** of **2017**. Samara would be **12 years old** here, as she has in the original movie (before her death). For this, I have transferred its history to the present time, since it originally occurred almost forty years ago. This will bring some changes, and some will be specified in later chapters._

— ** _Dr. Scott_** _is a character from **The Ring** , but since his participation is minimal and we never actually see his appearance, both his appearance and his personality were adapted by me._

— _In the **2002** film **The Ring** , the location of the **Eola Psychiatric Hospital** is not explicitly specified. Under the context of the film, it could be speculated that **Eola County** could be some fictional county in **Washington State** , invented in the movie. Here, however, I have located it in the community of **Eola** in Oregon, which is a real site. This was to take advantage of the same names, give it a more accurate location, and also this is due to some events planned for later._


	2. 02 I came here to help you

**Author's Notes:**

 _Hello everyone, how are you? After a long time, I bring you **Chapter 2** translated into English. I was unsure about continuing with the translation, but after I see that there were several people interested in being able to read it in English, I decided to try again. I re-edit **Chapter 01** in a way could be more understandable (I hope), so if someone is interested, you can reread it. Meanwhile, I leave you with this chapter that is in fact quite short (I think the shortest so far). But don't worry, in Spanish, I have already written **29 Chapters** , so there is a lot of history on the way._

* * *

 **Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 02.  
** **I came here to help you**

Samara Morgan, twelve years old, the daughter of Richard and Anna Morgan, two award-winning horse breeders with a ranch on Moesko Island, on the coast of Washington State. She had been hospitalized in Eola for almost a month, due to the strange events that had begun a year ago in her home. Although everything seemed to indicate that these events were happening a long time ago, only until then had they started to become so notorious; and they were increasing, according to the testimonies.

Anna Morgan was interned in that same place, practically at the same time as her daughter, severely affected by everything that happened. Since then, the medicals, including especially Dr. John Scott, had tried in a thousand ways to understand what was happening, and primarily how to treat it to give peace of mind to the girl's parents; and, by the way, to the few inhabitants of their island.

Needless to say, in all that time, they had not made much progress. But this was not for

their ineptitude or lack of hospitality, even if Matilda had the unconscious desire to blame it. The truth was that they faced a case that went beyond their knowledge, and for that reason, Mr. Morgan had decided to appeal to a second opinion; the opinion of the organization Matilda Honey represented.

And that was what had taken her to that place, to that bright white room in which she was sitting, in front of that girl with black hair and even blacker eyes. In the photographs that were sent to Matilda, from a few months or even a couple of years ago, Samara looked like a smiling girl with firm pink cheeks. But the girl who had in front of her was entirely different. What most caused her anguish was not the almost sickly pallor of her skin or those marked dark eye bags, but that gaze... that nearly terrifying gaze in her eyes.

Despite her haggard appearance, she was still a pretty girl. Her facial features were delicate, and her eyes, even with that gaze, were quite beautiful, deep and bright.

"Nice to meet you, Samara," Matilda replied, with marked enthusiasm, just after the girl had said her name. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Ugly things, for sure," the Samara murmured with disdain.

"No, not at all…"

"Are you coming to study me too?" She interrupted abruptly. "Do you come to put wires on me and try to discover how I do what I do?"

That sudden reproach took Matilda a little off guard but did not let it break her composure. She continued to smile at her, maybe even more than before.

"I already know how you do what you do, Samara." These words created such notorious amazement at the girl, who was not able to hide it behind those layers of coldness. "And I went here just to help you and support you with it, no more."

Samara remained silent, but she was openly skeptical.

"You do not believe me, right? Okay, that's normal."

Matilda uncrossed her legs, crossing them again immediately after, but now with the opposite leg on top of the other.

"Could you do me a favor?" Matilda leaned slightly toward her as if they were whispering a secret. "Tell me... is there anyone else listening to us right now?"

Just as when she asked if she could sit down, Samara's only response was to shrug.

"I know you do know; not be shy." That last comment ended with a discreet wink of her right eye. "Tell me, is anyone looking at us? Is there anyone listening to what we say right now?"

Again, the young girl seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, she began to turn her head very slowly around the room. First to the right, then to the left, with a lapse of five seconds between one side and the other. She turned then over her right shoulder, posing her attention in a security camera in one of the corners of the roof; Matilda had not even noticed it. Finally, she looked at the camera on the tripod and at the mirror behind the desk.

"No... nobody listens to us."

She sounded pretty sure about it, although Matilda did not really know for sure how accurate that claim could be, despite how direct it had been with her _threat_ to Dr. Scott. Maybe she had nothing left but to trust that the good doctor would keep his word.

"Then, you can trust that everything you tell me, and everything I tell you, will be between you and me. It's okay?" There was no response. "I know you've had some difficult days. I know you feel that you have been treated as if you were something strange. I know you must be confused, scared, and alone. But you're not alone, Samara. There are others like you, who can help you."

"There is none like me," Samara emphasized brusquely.

"Are you sure?"

A more confident smile was drawn on the lips of the young doctor. She sat upright in her chair again and put her hand into the right pocket of her long tan coat. She was going to take something out, but before doing so, she had the impulse to look over her shoulder at the double-view mirror. Was there really nobody watching? It was impossible to know for sure. But whatever it was, it did not matter anymore.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket and extended it to the front with its palm extended. On her hand, she had a cube made of several pieces of wood, with pastel colors: blue, green, orange and yellow. It was one of those puzzles in three dimensions that took some ingenuity and care to put them together. Samara looked at the curious object with confusion in her eyes. But before she could ask what it was or why she taught it... the cube began to separate from the palm, on its own...

Samara slightly startled when she saw it. The cube rises little by little from Matilda's hand, with complete naturalness, until it suspended in the air at the height of the woman's face. Then, it slowly approached the front, until stay right in the space between them. Samara looked at the cube and the face of Matilda consecutively. The cold and aggressive expression had vanished, and in its place was left only the amazement and wonder that anyone would expect from an innocent young girl.

"What you have, Samara, is an extraordinary gift," began Matilda to tell her. As she spoke, the cube began to separate in its many parts, and every one floated in a different direction, but staying close to others, flitting around like small insects. Samara looked from time to time with interest at some of the pieces, but mainly had her attention set on what Matilda explained. "Some are born with it, others develop it with time, and others... are forced to have it. Different people call it in different forms. My colleagues and I call it the Shining. And those of us, who possess it, are people who shine. Each Shining is different between one person and another, like your fingerprints or the features of your face. Even two abilities that are quite similar vary in their scope, capacity, control, or limits."

The pieces of the cube descended, and they were right in front of Samara. The girl, maybe instinctively, extended her hands to the front. The pieces were suspended centimeters from her palms, and one by one began to fit perfectly, to form the color cube. Finally, it settled delicately on her hands. Samara stared incredulously at the cube and moved her fingers through it to make sure was real and tangible. Then she raised her gaze to Matilda; she still seemed somewhat skeptical. _Did you really do that?_ Matilda thought she would thinking just then. It was a reaction she used to see often.

"There are many like you, and like me," she continued. "And many of them have gone through situations like yours. You are not alone, Samara. I am here to help you."

Samara remained reserved. Matilda noticed how she was pressing the cube with some force between her fingers.

"I do not deserve to be helped," Samara susurrated so slowly, that Matilda doubted to have listened well. "I have hurt so many people. And the horses... my parents..."

The amazement and wonder that had replaced the coldness now gave way to worry, anguish, and fear. That was apparently the real Samara Morgan.

A month ago, several of the horses at Morgan Farm, for no apparent reason, had lost control, even knocking out of their stables and pens, and jumping off the cliffs into the sea. The case was a mystery, except for the Morgans: they exactly knew what, or rather who had been. That had been the main trigger to intern her there.

And still, the horses had not been the worst affected: the main victim had been her own mother.

"I am aware of everything that has happened" Matilda continued, now with much more caution in her tone. "But I also know that it was not because you wanted to do it. Without proper guidance, it sometimes becomes complicated to control what we can do. And people without our gifts, do not understand what that is. They are afraid, they feel confused and scared. But nobody keeps any resentment to you."

"Not even my parents?" Samara suddenly got up.

"Of course not. Your dad was who called us, asked to come and help you. Everyone wants you to be well, Samara. They want you to get out of here and come back with them."

The latter made Samara's face light up, and turn at last to see her directly, and with her eyes wide open.

"When can I go home?" gave a hurry, something that almost hurt Matilda. It was more than understandable that she wanted to leave that place as soon as possible.

"Soon, I promise. I'll take care of that. But for that, I need you to help me. Agree?"

Samara mused a few moments about the proposal.

"What should I do?"

"Just talk to me."

"Just talk?" Samara repeated, arching her right eyebrow. "Without cables? Without monitors? Without injections?"

"Without any of that. Just talk."

"What about?"

Matilda smiled and leaned upright against the back of her chair.

"On this first visit, whatever you want."

* * *

Their conversation lasted for about forty minutes before Matilda decided it was enough; besides, Samara was beginning to look tired. In general, the topics were focused on getting to know each other better: what they liked to eat, what they preferred to do, favorite series and movies; everything quite normal. Outside of it, the only issue related to the elephant in the room that Samara came to touch was to ask Matilda when she could do _that_. Matilda did not want to go into much detail about it, at least not on the first visit. She limited to telling her she had done it for the first when was six-and-a-half, and from there little, by little, it was strengthened. When the question returned, Samara's face became somewhat melancholy, and with her head bowed she answered: _always_.

When she went back into the hall through the door, which could easily be opened from the interior, the first thing she heard was a sharp laugh a few meters away from her. Looking at the end of the corridor, she glimpsed three figures, two known and one not so, standing at the end apparently talking. One of them was the blonde girl at the reception, who was the one who laughed so hard, very different from the almost lethargic state in which she had met her. The other two were Dr. Scott himself and another man in a white coat and more discreet younger-looking glasses.

As soon as the three of them noticed her presence, and also she was looked at them, they fell silent and hurriedly recovered their serenity. The young nurse lowered her head somewhat embarrassed and began to walk with quick steps back down the hall. Matilda barely and looked at her out of the corner of her eye when she passed in front of her.

"So, how was that?" Scott questioned, with sincere interest.

"Pretty good. Samara is a lovely girl."

"Lovely?" the other doctor questioned, apparently surprised by such a statement. Scott repressed him with his eyes, in a very subtle way.

"Dr. Johnson, could you take the subject to her room while I talk to Dr. Honey?"

The request left the young doctor frozen, who even seemed scared. What bad experience in the past could be the cause of those last two reactions? As it was, he objected nothing, and instead went into the _interrogations_ room to fulfill it.

Scott instructed Matilda with his hand to walk, and she followed him; surely he was more than eager to escort her to the door, even knowing that would see her tomorrow, and last, and most of the days of the next two or three weeks.

"How do you see, I acted my part" Scott committed while they were walking side by side. "I left you two alone, as you requested."

"I know, and I appreciate it. But I still have nothing to share."

"Nothing?" Scott exclaimed incredulously.

"One thing only: Samara is distraught by the ugly room in which you put her. And she promised to be more accessible if you change her to a more comfortable place. My suggestion is: do it.

"Her room is the most suitable one we have for a patient of its kind."

"Violent patients, you mean? She doesn't seem to be the case."

"Just wait. A couple of days more with her and you will ask us to put her in that room yourself, or in a more secure one".

Matilda was deeply disturbed by that comment. Did he really believe that was the correct way in which a doctor should express himself about his patient? No wonder Samara wanted to leave so much.

She stepped forward suddenly leaving Dr. Scott behind fairly soon. She didn't need help to find the exit, so she preferred to continue on her own.

"I'll back tomorrow. And please, let the next sessions be in a better room. She is a girl, not a criminal.

Before Scott answered or refuted anything, Matilda went faster on reception's direction.

It had been a long day, and she wanted to lie down to rest at last, greatly.

* * *

Dr. Johnson, accompanied by two male nurses, escorted Samara to her room. For anyone external, it would be somewhat exaggerated that three grown men and adults carry a little girl of twelve, especially when she walked quietly in front of them on her own. But only they could say for sure how exaggerated that really was.

Samara moved forward with her eyes downcast, her long hair almost covering her face. In her hands, she held Matilda's colored cube; she had told she could keep it.

The door to her room was steel, with a square window at the height of an adult's face. It had two locks that opened with two different keys. One of the orderlies opened it quickly and left the way clear for Samara to pass on her own.

"They'll bring you something for dinner in a few minutes." Dr. Johnson informed her. Samara looked at him over her shoulder earnestly, causing a small back jump.

The girl entered with calm steps, and the same nurse again closed the door behind her, to quickly put the insurance back.

The room was also completely white with walls and ceiling, quite similar to the room in which she had been with Matilda, although considerably smaller. On the left side, there was a stretcher of white sheets, with leather straps included. From the left, there was a small door that led to a small bathroom, which was perhaps less than a quarter the size of that space; but it was at least maybe the only room of that type (for violent patients) with a bathroom, in that building at least. There was no window, no other furniture or object, except for an old-fashioned circular clock hanged over the door.

Samara moved toward the stretcher, and sat on it, with the cube in her hands. The bed was as low as possible so that her feet touched the floor without a problem. For a long time, she just sat, staring blankly at the bright white floor. Her eyes weighed on her; she felt exhausted.

The brightness of light reflected on the polished floor surface called her attention primarily. That curious expression that Matilda had used (the Shining) came to her mind. She had said that was the name of what she could do.

Her eyes closed alone without being able to prevent it.

But, could there be something shiny in what she did? For her, those skills, those thoughts, what she did... It seemed just to be surrounded...

Of darkness...

Her eyelids closed just a little, but enough. All the space around her disappeared for a small fraction of a second. When her eyes opened again, that space was no longer front her.

The air was dense, damp, and disgusting; she felt how it stuck to her skin and left it sticky. The walls and ceiling were no longer white. These were full of stains, corrosion, and mold. The paint was stained and falling apart. The light was much more opaque, a little more and it would be dark. The ground that she was looking at so strictly only a second ago was now covered of water, dark and calm, and covered her up to her ankles.

Her breathing snapped, and her heart beat hard, while her gaze was fixed on such a horrible vision. A heartbreakingly cold sensation rose through her body, from the tips of her feet, submerged beneath the dark water, to her back. It was difficult to breathe because the air felt tainted as if that didn't mean to be being breathed by humans.

What would follow was already known and expected for her, but it was no less surprising. The bed sank, and its legs creaked a little. Samara could clearly feel the additional weight; she was not alone in that room. She could feel it in her neck with total clarity: there was someone in the bed, right behind her. She heard its breathing, like small, choked screams. Hers, on the other hand, became even more intense. Each inhalation required a great effort to be able to take even a little bit of the necessary air. She didn't turn around at all; she never did it. Partly because fear simply froze her, and partly because she did not want to. Samara did not wish to see directly that which accompanied her.

That thing's hands rested slowly on Samara's shoulders, and they slipped from back to front. Instinctively Samara glanced sideways at the one on her right shoulder, a hand of grayish skin with sores, and dirty nails with brown tones.

She felt that thing approaching even more, as its face placed right over his right ear. Felt its cold breath on her skin, hurting like hundreds of needles.

"She can't help you." Whisper in a deep voice resonated with the echo of dozens more. "You don't deserve to be helped..."

Its hands tightened even more on her shoulders, causing her to let out a scream of pain. She closed her eyes hard, and small tears ran down her cheeks. She tightened her eyelids and did not open them at all until the feeling of those hands on her just vanished. When opened them Once again, everything had changed again.

The walls and white ceiling were there again, including the brightness reflected on the floor. The water on her feet also disappeared, leaving no trace, as if it had never been there. So it was? And most importantly, that horrifying presence at her back was also gone.

She reached out quickly and took Matilda's colored cube, and pressed it between her fingers, against her chest. She continued breathing with anxiety, looking intently at the brightness on the floor. Having that little puzzle with her and so close, gave her some security... but not enough.

 **END OF CHAPTER 02**


	3. 03 A different nature

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 03.  
** **A different nature**

On Wednesday of her first week in Oregon, Matilda had her third session with Samara and was the first in which she managed to get them to talk outside of that interrogation room where the two previous ones had gotten. Matilda had suggested the cafeteria, but Dr. Scott's goodwill didn't go that far. Instead, he allowed them to use a special room to interview children, smaller than Samara. It was a room structurally similar to the other: same dimensions, entirely white, a single door, and a double mirror at one end. However, it had several things inside, so they made seeing and feeling the space more pleasant: small chairs, a couple of couches, toys, balls, coloring books, and, of course, colors. There was also a tapestry of flowers and grass covering the lower part of the wall, and paper figures hanging from the ceiling.

That room should make more comfortable a child of five or six, for sure. But, Matilda wasn't sure if it could work with a twelve-year-old girl like Samara. Likewise, she hoped that anything could be better than that white room.

In the first instance, Samara did not seem to show emotion or repudiation of the new scenario; the coldness and indifference of her face had remained constant since their talk last Monday. She led her to one of the coloring tables, and they sat on the chairs (which were apparently quite small for both of them, but at least the young girl with long black hair could accommodate herself better).

After a few casual minutes that mainly consisted of asking about how she felt, if had eaten well, and if wanted to talk about something in particular (which she responded by merely shaking her head), Matilda quickly moved on to something else. From his briefcase, which she always brought with her, she took out a rectangle that was a little thick, just a little taller and longer than a legal size sheet. Samara looked at it curiously. At first glance, it seemed like a pack of white paper sheets, but it was evident that they were thicker than regular sheets. They were like little cardboard to paint. Matilda took out one of them and placed it on the table, right in front of her.

"I'd like you to draw something for me if you feel ok doing it," she said softly, widening his smile.

Samara looked at her askance for a while, in silence.

"What thing?"

"Whatever you want." Matilda shrugged and sat upright in her little chair. "What comes to your mind?"

Samara kept looking at her for a few more moments as if hesitating between doing it or not. In the end, she seemed to accept, because she extended her right hand to the pencil jar near her on the table. However, Matilda stopped her.

"If you want to do it with a pencil, pen or watercolor, it's perfect." The psychiatrist said. "But, if it's not an inconvenience for you, I'd like you to do it the other way." There was a small pause. "You know, the one only you can do."

There was a curious, playful tone accompanying Matilda's words. Samara hesitated; she had no problem understanding what Matilda wanted, but she didn't seem at all ready to do it.

"No pressure, Samara." Matilda hastened to mention, and unconsciously extended her hand with the intention of touching her shoulder, but regretted the act halfway and quickly backed away. It could be too early to cross the line of physical contact. "Remember, with me, you don't have to do or say anything that you don't want. Agree?"

Samara remained silent. It was so difficult to understand what was going through her mind. It was at times like that in which Matilda thought she would have liked a little less telekinesis if in exchange she managed to have a little more telepathy; that would have made her job so simple. But she did not do that because it was complicated or straightforward, and in one way or another, she had to do her work.

The silence lasted for more than a minute in which Matilda waited patiently. When Samara finally reacted, it was so sudden that Matilda missed the moment Samara's right hand landed on the white rectangle front her and pressed her fingers to the material. Her eyes focused on it, and she made a small grimace as if trying to lift something heavy.

They spent about ten seconds in which nothing happened. But suddenly, in front of the pending eyes of the psychiatrist, several brown lines began to spread through the paper, as if someone had poured ink on it. They extended to the sides and upwards, drawing several curves. But it was not drawing precisely: it was as if something very hot, but very thin at the same time, touched the cardboard and burned it, leaving a mark on the surface. It looked like this, but it was not the same. It did not smell burned, and the lines were not on the surface or created cracks in it: it was as if they were part of the same material as if it had been manufactured like that from the beginning.

The curves, at first unconnected and without a logical order, soon began to take shape: altogether they created the image of a tree, large, but with its bare branches, without any leaves in it. And it was quite detailed and realistic, like the drawing of a true professional artist.

Once the drawing was captured, Samara slowly withdrew her hand from the paper, and hid it on her legs, under the table. She lowered her head, and her hair fell over her face as if trying to hide it in grief.

Matilda took the cardboard carefully with both hands and glanced at it more carefully. She slipped her fingers over the surface; in effect, it didn't feel as if the tree had been carved or pressed on him; just it appeared there. She was not surprised that Samara made that tree; in fact, she expected it.

"It's wonderful, Samara," Matilda said with genuine admiration. "I have seen you frequently draw this tree in the other illustrations that Dr. Scott show me. Is anyone in your house?

"No," the girl said hurriedly, surprisingly quickly considering that she habitually took her time to answer. "It's a tree that I see sometimes... in my dreams."

Matilda quickly took note of this information in the notebook she brought with her. In a world where everyone seemed to prefer using tablets with touch screens, she still preferred paper and pencil for almost everything.

It was not directly related, but that comment made Matilda think in something she wanted to ask her in advance.

"The other doctors say you still can't sleep regularly." She waited to see if there was a reaction in her, but there wasn't. "Is there something special that makes you stay awake? Do you have nightmares?"

There was a slight reaction on Samara: a small jump that made her raise her head by mere reflection.

"Most of the time." She murmured very slowly.

"What kind of nightmares?"

"With water... there's water always. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning and I can't get out."

Matilda was intrigued by it. Water? That could mean many things. Could it be linked to the incident of the horses that were drowned?

"How do you feel in those moments? Desperate? Scared?"

"All that and more."

Matilda rushed to write down everything she could. That would definitely be a topic that would play often, but for now, she decided to shelve it and move on to another.

"I would like to talk a little about your mother. They told me that she is also here. Do you often talk with her?

Again a reaction, but not a positive one at all. Samara's face crouched once more and, under the table, her fingers moved nervously between them.

"She doesn´t want to see me," Samara replied. "She hates me."

"I'm sure it's not like that," Matilda hurried to clarify. "She's just scared, and she's here for help, just like you..."

"They won't be able to help her," snapped Samara suddenly, in a somewhat aggressive tone. "Just as you can't help me..."

Matilda realized that more than aggressiveness, her words were loaded with a certain melancholy, easily contagious.

Mr. Morgan had indicated that the relationship between Samara and her mother had been diluted over the months, and the incident with the horses had been the end of it. Matilda was someone who from the day of her birth was never even remotely close to her biological mother. Also, from the time of her first day in elementary school, she had a reasonably good, affectionate and respectful relationship with her adopted mother. So, it was a bit difficult for her to imagine what it was like to have a mother who you think loves you, and the next day feels that she hates you.

It was apparent to Matilda, even before getting on the plane that had taken her to this place, that the matter with her mother was an important factor (if it was not the main one), of that closed, cold and aggressive state Samara had sunk. If she wanted to have any chance of getting her out of it, the key was Mrs. Morgan.

"Would you like me to arrange you could talk to your mom?" Matilda questioned her gently, making Samara have the most significant reaction of the day.

Her eyes widened, and she immediately raised her face and turned it to see directly, expectantly; It seemed very similar to how she reacted when she promised to help her out of there.

"Can you do that?"

"I can try. Would you like that?"

Without hesitation, the little girl quickly nodded her head. Matilda thought that perhaps she had planted too much hope in her. But she had promised to try, so that would do the same.

"Then leave it in my hands, yes?" Matilda winked at her with conspiracy, and she thought saw a small trace of a smile on those slightly pink lips of Samara. "On another theme, it's very likely tomorrow we won't be able to see each other. I will just go to your house to talk to your father. Is there something you want me to tell him?"

Samara hesitated a moment, then shook her head carefully with denial. Apparently, the longing she had to see her father wasn't comparable to the one she had to see her mother. Maybe she felt some resentment towards him, seeing as the person who put them both in that place.

"Well, maybe there's something you want me to bring from your house?"

Again, a moment of silence before her response.

"One of my dolls."

Matilda was a little surprised, but she tried to prevent her face to reflect it. She did not think that the girls of that time still played with dolls, less those of twelve years old, who already for that age cared more about fashion artists and surfing the internet. Could it be a sign of a small regression? She did not want to be so obvious writing it at the time but made a mental note for later. Maybe she was exaggerating, and Samara was just a twelve-year-old girl who still liked dolls.

"Is there a particular doll you want me to bring you?"

"Nancy," Samara answered with a whisper. "Nancy could keep me company."

* * *

After the session was over and Samara was taken to rest in her room, the same restraint room from which she had not managed to get her out, Matilda went to Dr. Scott's office to discuss some significant issues. The first, and perhaps simplest, was the theme of the doll. The Good Doctor answered it without much hesitation with a series of points on the security measures of the institution, to protect both staff and other patients.

"It's a doll we're talking about, not a knife," Matilda exclaimed, almost indignant, sitting on one of the chairs facing John's minimalist desk.

"If you had enough experience in this type of institution, Doctor," he began to say, without taking his eyes off the flat monitor of his computer, as he typed quickly and carefully. Matilda hoped he was not chatting with anyone else as they spoke. "Then you would know that even the least thought object can become a weapon in the hands of aggressive patients with the willingness to hurt someone. And this patient, in particular, is already aggressive enough without it."

"All of you made it very clear: you feel uncomfortable in the presence of this girl. But after these three sessions, I start to wonder if it's not you who are aggressive with her, and those who encourage her to do whatever she has done to you."

Scott separated his eyes from the monitor and turned to look at her over the frame of his glasses with an undisguised annoyance. It was good to know that little by little they became more honest with each other with the passing of days.

"As I said before, just wait a little longer, and you'll understand it," he warned, or instead threatened, bluntly, before turning back to his computer.

Matilda simply sighed.

"Well, how about I bring the doll and she only uses it while she's in session with me? I don't think you really care about my safety, do you? In the room we were in today there were many dangerous colored pencils and toys."

"I don't know if the paperwork will worth it. But as you like, Doctor."

Well, a triumph, or something like that. And in spite of everything, that had been the most straightforward request; Matilda did not even want to imagine what the next one would be like.

"One more thing. I'd like to talk to Mrs. Morgan."

"That won't be possible," Scott replied, much more neutral and quickly than expected. "She doesn't talk to anyone, and less will talk to you. Her behavior has become violent, and we have to keep her sedated all the time."

"Something I heard about that, but I'll have to insist. Heal the relationship with her mother, will be crucial to Samara's recovery. She feels her mother hates her for what happened, and it is important for her to know that this is not the case.

"Well, it'll be difficult, because it is."

Matilda was startled a little when she heard him say such a thing, and her almost murderous look was enough to show that it had not seemed in the least. Either the subject required more of her attention, or maybe the critical thing he was doing was over, because at that moment Scott finally took his eyes off the monitor, and turned his chair entirely towards her.

"Listen to me, you've only been talking with this girl for three days, and maybe you think with that, and with your supposed experience in this field, you already know everything you need to know about her. But it's not like that. The images that she creates with her mind, not only she does on paper or radiographs; she can do it in the heads and dreams of people."

"I already know that…"

"No, you don't know," Scott said energetically. "She did it with her horses on the farm, and she did it with her mother practically since she was a baby. The horses jumped into a ravine thanks to it; Mrs. Morgan... she wasn't so lucky than they."

"She doesn't control it yet," Matilda answered, trying to sound as safe as possible. "Nothing she has done, and that includes here in this hospital, has been intentional."

"Try to explain that to her mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure if you arrange I can talk to her. Not right now, but soon."

Scott huffed, annoyed, and did not answer anything else.

"Please, at least try to ask if she would receive me. I'll see Mr. Morgan tomorrow. I can ask him directly, but it would be easier if you fix it, do not you think?"

Scott looked at her condescendingly, like an adult sees a stubborn child who asks him, again and again, the same request, no matter how hard you say _no_. Even so, in the end, he shrugged, resigned.

"I live to serve you, Doctor."

"And then he turned back to his computer, perhaps ending his talk in that way. Matilda liked it; what she least wanted was to be a second longer in that office that reeked of his overloaded lotion, perhaps marinated a little with his own ego.

Matilda stood up and withdrew in silence. She went immediately to her hotel to prepare herself. She had an important date that night, after all.

* * *

At eight o'clock, western time, Matilda was already bathed, groomed, combed, and lightly made up; nothing exaggerated, just a little to hide the small eyes bags of fatigue began to draw, and some blush to color her cheeks. She put on casual clothes, but clean and ironed. Not even when she had a date with a boy, the few times she had actually had it, was arranged so early and carefully. And the worst part was that she was not even going to leave the room. Well, maybe taking advantage of the fact that she was already fixed, she would go out to a restaurant nearby to dinner. But the initial intention of his arrangement was a simple video call by _Skype_.

But in reality, that _simple_ call had nothing _simple_ in it. Nothing was simple when it came to talking to Jane Wheeler, the founder and head of the Eleven Foundation. In spite of all the years she had known her, she kept getting nervous every time she saw her; and that included even if it was just her image on a screen. And she was more than just being her boss; for Matilda, Jane was much more than that. Besides that under that constant smile and friendly attitude, you had always felt something slightly frightening in her, something that inspired you to bend over at her mere glance, even Matilda, the one supposed to not bend to anyone. Whatever that something was, Matilda was sure it was beyond her Shining. Because, indeed, Jane Wheeler had it, and a powerful one.

Now ready, Matilda sat on the desk in the room, placed his laptop on it and lit it. A few minutes later, the person who waited appeared as connected, and the call began. Matilda took a deep breath and sat upright in her chair; she felt for a moment like a girl going from a moment of relaxation to one of complete seriousness, when the teacher enters the classroom.

On the screen, the video showed in a blink the foreground of a woman's face, already in her fifties, but still with a pretty preserved and elegant look, with dark brown hair, slightly curly, very natural, and short, loose shoulder-length; she looked distinguished. The woman smiled broadly from ear to ear as soon as she saw the image of Matilda on her own computer; her lips were discreetly painted pink.

"Pretty Matilda," her voice was heard through the notebook speakers. "How does the West Coast treat you?"

"Good evening, Mrs. Wheeler," she said hastily, and then had to clear her throat a bit before proceeding. "Better than I expected. Thanks for asking."

The woman on the screen looked at her with slight severity in her large, bright, light brown eyes.

"Matilda, you're too old to I have to be reminded you every time you don't have to call me _Mrs. Wheeler_ or _Mrs. Jane_. Or not?"

Matilda blushed a little at that little scolding. The formal treatment was something she did almost without thinking with certain people who gave her enormous respect; she kept calling her own mother _Miss Honey_ many times, without realizing it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated hastily, inhaling some air through her nose. "I feel fine, Eleven..."

The woman on the screen smiled satisfied.

She would never forget the words she had used to present herself the first time when she was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old: " _My name is Jane, but you can call me Eleven. All my friends do it."_ And, apparently, that was what she told all the children she came to know in her work, because all her acquaintances of the Foundation, especially those with the Shining as herself, call her like that. She was their _Aunt Eleven_ , their _Mama Eleven_ , and their _Teacher Eleven_ , though she insisted that it was only their _Friend Eleven_.

Many had come to ask her the reason of that nickname, which also gave the name to the Foundation, but only to a few, including Matilda herself, she had answered with the full story. And on why she had decided to call the Foundation in that way, she just said: _"It wasn't my idea, it's a pretty firm suggestion from my now husband and my other friends. In the end, I think I got used to calling it like that."_

"Did you visited your mother already?" Friend Eleven asked, curious.

"Not yet. I will do it once I finish here."

"Perfect; I know it would bother her a lot if you didn't. It would bother me."

Mrs. Wheeler's oldest daughter had already finished college and worked in New York in a Real Estate business, of which Matilda was not entirely well informed; for sure that was the origin of the comment. Her second son, a twenty-year-old boy, was studying in Bloomington, and she still had a sixteen-year-old girl at home to take care of. And even so, she continued directing every step of the Foundation from her home in the peaceful Hawkins, Indiana. And nothing escaped her... never.

Jane's face became relatively severe suddenly.

"Well, before starting, do you have anything else to add to the information that you already sent me?"

Matilda also opted for a more serious position. The reason for the call was to talk about the work that had taken her to Oregon, and more specifically about her current patient: Samara Morgan, and her first impressions after those early days.

Matilda told Eleven a summarized of the situation between Matilda and her mother, and how it seemed to be seriously affecting the little one. She told her she wished to speak with Mrs. Morgan in person, and then try to agree they both could see each other if she saw fit. Eleven listened to everything carefully, only nodding her head from time to time.

"It's quite difficult for a child who shines feels the rejection of everyone, especially their own parents."

"I know that very well." And she really knew it. "What do you think? My approach has been the right one?"

"Your decisions so far seem more than adequate, as they always are."

Those words illuminated the face of the young psychiatrist, without her realizing it. It was a strange thing, how could still cause an effect like that on her the words of encouragement of the right person.

"Is there anything special that you think I should do from here on?"

"Yes." Eleven's tone and face took on a somewhat strange, almost melancholy feeling that took Matilda a little by surprise." I don't want you to take it badly, Matilda... But I think you should withdraw from this case."

Suddenly, the joy and emotion that had arisen in her vanished when she heard her say that last, which now left her totally stunned. Matilda thought maybe she had heard or misunderstood, but the message was totally clear, and she did not understand in the least where it had come from.

"What? But why?" She exclaimed, almost alarmed. "If I've only been here three days, and I feel like I'm making a lot of progress. You just told me that my decisions so far have been the right ones. What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Jane emphasized, raising her hands in front of her in a calm sign. "You are doing great, just as I expected from you. But after reviewing the information that you and the other doctors have compiled, I feel there is something in this case that could surpass you. You are a very competent person, and the fact I asked you to review the situation yourself, proves it. But I genuinely believe that this girl may be beyond what you have seen before. And for your own safety, I can't ask you to keep digging into this."

Matilda felt confused, even slightly dizzy with everything she said. A few hours ago, she had just told Dr. Scott the fear everyone there professed to Samara was wholly unfounded, and now her own mentor was telling her practically the same thing as they?

As I said before, just wait a little longer, and you'll understand it, the Good Doctor had sentenced her.

"What's this all about?" Matilda questioned, unconsciously already something defensive. "What have you seen I don't?"

"It's more what I did not see," she replied in an almost lugubrious way. "There is something in this girl that is very different from what you already know, Matilda. Something..." She made a small pause of hesitation. "I can only say that her shining could be of a different nature."

"Different? What is that supposed to mean?" Her tone had become somewhat more aggressive, and that was quickly perceived by the woman on the screen.

"Listen to me..."

"No, you listen to me," Matilda interrupted sharply. "I don't know what all this is about, but it's from an innocent girl we're talking about; a girl who needs our help, to which her parents, and all her people, have almost entirely turned their backs on her, and if they were to leave her for the rest of her life where she was locked up. It is precisely to help children like her because I am in the Foundation, and I will not abandon her."

"I don't tell you to abandon her." The tone of Jane was also charged with impulse. "I only think that it would be pertinent, for the good of the girl, and your own, that you put the case in the hands of someone with another type of experience."

"Who has more experience in treating children with this kind of problems than me?"

"I didn't say more experience. I said "another" kind of experience."

Matilda raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What another kind of experience?"

Eleven was silent, holding Matilda's gaze with intensity on her screen.

"It's not something you can talk on _Skype_. I can only tell you there is a huge aspect of the Shining you still don't know. And this girl may be more of this other aspect."

More obscure words and unclear answers; all this seemed to desperate Matilda little by little. It was the first time Eleven made her feel that way; at least she didn´t remember another one.

"Look, I do not understand what you're talking about," Matilda said firmly, raising her voice a little involuntarily. "But with all the respect I have for you, I have to tell you that it would be a mistake for you to take me out of this case. Samara's already starting to open with me; I think I'm making a connection with her, something that Scott and his group of crazy doctors haven't accomplished in more than a month. And if you take me off and put someone else on, that could throw all that progress overboard, and maybe she won't open up like that again. I started it, and I'm willing to finish it, even if it has to happen over you."

She sat down firmly in the chair and took a deep breath, trying not even to blink.

"And I am determined to do so!"

And after exposed her intentions, Matilda stayed in the same position, reflecting security, maturity, and decision, from her look to his position. However, inside, her heart beat a thousand per hour, and an internal voice shouted: _"Did you just raise your voice to Eleven?! Have you gone crazy?!"_

She had spoken that way too many people before, but never to two: Eleven and her adoptive mother. Now there was only the latter. Perhaps she had let herself be carried away by her courage, and she had not stopped to contemplate the consequences, and now that had her dead with fear, even if she remained firm on the outside.

Jane, for her part, remained silent, watching her from the other side of the call, with an almost somber expression that Matilda did not know how to interpret. That _constant smile_ was no longer there. That situation lasted for nearly a minute, in which Matilda repeatedly considered shouting she was sorry and she hadn't wanted to say it that way. However, to her relief... although in reality, it was not so much, in the end, Eleven smiled again; In fact, she let out a small laugh of amusement.

"Did you know that even when you try to be threatening, you can't help being adorable?" She released her suddenly, causing Matilda to blush gravely after the comment. "I have always admired your passion, Pretty Matilda, and I'm glad to see you have the determination to take this to the best possible end. However..." her face suddenly became serious again. "You have to be very clear this girl... is not Carrie White."

Matilda was startled, almost scared, to hear her say that, and her breathing was cut off. Any determination, firmness or security that would have remained in her, it went to the ground because she heard that single name.

Matilda was unable to respond.

"The similarities between both cases are more than obvious. You will not deny them, right?" Matilda still said nothing. "You can't let your emotions about what happened back then, project on this girl, Matilda. It is not right, and it can be dangerous."

Matilda hesitated a little, and when at last she tried to speak, she almost stammered. She took a second and took a deep breath to calm down. It was not fair to bring that subject to light; Eleven knew very well how it affected her. However, deep down, she knew if she did it, it was for a reason.

Carrie White... It had been a long time since she'd heard someone say that name aloud, even though it was hanging around her head quite often.

"They don't," Matilda said at last, as firmly as she could. "I am aware of everything you are telling me, and still I remain firm in my decision."

Matilda expected a reply, but Eleven only sighed, shrugged, and smiled again, though less effusively than before.

"It's okay; it would not be right to insist on something that naturally you decided so firmly. But at least let me find someone else who can support you with this."

"I think Cody is working in Seattle," the young psychiatrist said quickly; the idea had already crossed her mind in advance, and in fact, she hoped to be able to comment on the point along that call. "He could help me. I begin to think his Shining shares certain similarities to Samara's."

"Yes, Cody's help would be useful," Eleven agreed cautiously. "But I still think you'll need someone else."

"Someone with that _another_ kind of experience?"

A funny little laugh escaped from the woman's lips at the computer.

"You've always been the smartest in the room, Matilda. Or... from the chat window. I'll make some calls; I have someone in mind, but I must see if he is available. Meanwhile, I suggest you investigate the story of the girl a little more."

"Her story?" Matilda questioned, surprised. "What happens with her story? If you mean the horse incident, I already..."

"No," Eleven interrupted abruptly, "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about her story much further back. One of our collaborators gave me more information about her, you should check if you plan to continue treating her. I'll send this to you as soon as we hang up."

Suddenly, Eleven leaned toward the camera, as if trying in some way to get close enough to whisper a secret in her ear. Her gaze again became hard, almost terrifying. And as a storyteller to the fire of a bonfire, finishing telling a story, she whispered in a slow and slow tone...

"Be very careful, Matilda..."

An instant later, before the young doctor could answer something, the call ended, abruptly, without any goodbye or good wishes.

Matilda wondered if perhaps there was some anger in Eleven for her rudeness. She liked to think Eleven was not the kind of person who would react in that way. Maybe it was more a bit of apprehension, because of the situation worried her so much, although she still did not understand precisely why.

What exactly did mean when she said that Samara's Shining could be of a _different nature_? What kind of _other_ experience would have the person who intended to send her? What is it Eleven, and apparently Dr. Scott and his group, have seen in this girl that she just doesn't? And, if they were right? What if there really was something in all that surpassed her? What if she was not really the right person to help Samara?

No, nothing of that.

What she had just said on that call was a pure truth: she was there to help Samara Morgan, and she would do it no matter what...

Matilda was not aware of how much time she was thinking right there, sitting in front of the computer, until she heard the sound of an email entering her inbox, accompanied by a notification in the lower right corner of her computer. The sender was precisely Eleven herself.

She opened it at that very moment, curious to know what exactly it was that she had discovered about Samara's past, especially if it could shed some light on what bothered her former mentor so much. Attached to the mail was several documents, but it was only enough to open one of them. Unfortunately, it did not serve her precisely to understand the cryptic message Eleven had left her with her words... but equally, what the document said, left her almost with an open mouth.

Stunned, she reviewed the rest of the documents, but all were basically a complement to the first.

She leaned against her back, turned pensively to the side, looking at any point on the carpet in the room, and tried to understand how to react based on what she had just read.

 **END OF CHAPTER 03**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _— **Jane Wheeler** is based on the **Eleven** character from the **Netflix** series, **Stranger Things** of **2016**. **Jane** is the real name of the character, according to the name that had been chosen by her mother, being her full real name **Jane Ives**. _Wheeler _is the last name of **Mike** , the protagonist of the series, with whom in this story she is married. In the original series, in its **First Season** occurs in **1983** , she is only **12 years old**. For this time, however, she will have around **46**. By the time this chapter is written, only the First Season of the series has been released, and the premiere of the **Second** is expected shortly. So, for now, only the First will be taken into account as a reference for this history from here on, subject to seeing that after watching its **Second Season** there is some information, situation or moment that it considers to be useful to the plot._


	4. 04 Too dangerous

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 04.  
** **Too dangerous**

The next morning, Matilda woke up very early, stood up as fast as she could for two cups of coffee in the restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel, and then poured a little more in a thermos for the road. She climbed into her rented vehicle and drove north along with the first rays of the sun. It would be a long and tiring journey of a few hours, in which she would have no other companion but the radio and her thermos.

The original route she had planned the day before, before her call with Eleven, was to head straight to Port Townsend, through Portland, and perhaps stopping for a few moments in Olympia to rest and have a more real breakfast. That only route would end up taking probably between four and five hours. Once in Port Townsend, she would have to wait and get the ferry would take her to Moesko Island, where the Morgan Horse Farm was located. Taking into account the wait and the time of the tour, in the worst scenario she expected to be there between one and two p.m.

But, as we said, that was her original route; the one she had in mind when she got up that morning, was a new one. It included in Tacoma, instead of taking the northwesterly direction to Port Townsend, deviated towards the northeast, toward Seattle. It would take several additional hours. She had planned to go to Seattle after going to Moesko, but the call with Eleven had made her feel that going there must be a priority.

According to her information, for three years Cody Hobson, an old friend of her from the Foundation, worked in Seattle as a biology teacher in a middle school. Cody also had the Shining, but one unique, very different from hers, very different from Eleven's, and very different from primarily any other that she had known until that moment; but, surprisingly, maybe a little similar to Samara's, or at least that's what she theorized. That is why she had considered it a good idea to talk to him, especially taking advantage of their relative closeness. But now perhaps he could also shed some light on what had Eleven so worried, or what was the _other_ experience she was supposed to need. And even if he couldn't, with his different perception thanks to his Shining, she was sure he would be helpful.

At Olympia, Matilda stopped at a _Denny's_ for breakfast, rest and stretch her legs. She took advantage of the stop, which she considered was already at a prudent hour to call, to communicate with Mr. Morgan, and move the time of their meeting to later, after four or five; there didn't seem to be any problem. She also tried to communicate with Cody so as not to be surprised him, but apparently, the last number she had of him was not the most recent one. Matilda sent a message to Eleven, asking her to pass on his new phone number if she had it. For her good luck, yes, she did; to her bad luck, she answered her when was on the road again, and she couldn't read it until an hour later when was about to cross the Seattle limits. And even so, when she tried to call with that new number, the phone rang, but of the three attempts she made, none of them got an answer.

Matilda stopped for a moment to think. What if she had made that detour in vain? What if Cody was not even in Seattle? Maybe he had gone to Alabama to visit her mother, and she had ventured without even knowing.

It took her a few minutes to decide, but in the end, chose to go to the school when he works and take the risk. When she arrived, she showed up at the Principal's Office as a colleague of Cody Hobson, whom she was looking for an urgent personal matter. For her fortune, they informed her the person she was looking for was present and teaching at that time. That made her sigh in relief. They offered to send him to call, but she opted to go on her own to see him in the classroom, foreseeing the recess time was near. Although they were reluctant in the beginning, her very effective power of conviction gave her the way.

Matilda followed the indications given to find Room B of the seventh grade, whose door was open. When she was a few inches from the entrance, she could hear, and clearly recognize, the teacher's voice inside.

"... and this particular class of monarch butterfly is one of the longest species," pronounced the soft and somewhat playful voice inside the classroom "since they can get to live for eight to nine months."

Matilda stopped near the doorframe, and peeked subtly, trying not to call attention at all. Standing in front of the room, she saw a young man, somewhat thin, with blond hair, slightly long and straight, with a tuft combed to the right, which completely covered his forehead. His dun eyes peered out from behind a pair of thin-framed glasses. He wore an interesting outfit, of blue jeans, a green checkered shirt, and a casual brown coat, which, thanks to his complexion, made it look like it was bigger than it really was. Matilda could not help but smile a little; a pair of boots and a hat, and he would have the typical attire of a young Alabama cowboy, though his remarkable lack of facial hair would not help him to secure that appearance.

His old friend Cody looked just as she remembered him; his somewhat boyish face made him look considerably younger than he really was. But few knew that beneath that squalid and seemingly feeble appearance, one of the most powerful possessors of the Shining with whom she had had the opportunity to cross himself was hiding, as well as one of the most intelligent.

Matilda stayed outside, just listening to the rest of his lesson until the bell rang.

"This period may sound short," continued the young professor, looking with great emotion at his students, "but it is not so much if we consider that the average lifetime of a monarch is..."

He paused for a long time, and turned to the class, waiting for someone to complete his sentence on his own initiative. However, what was found was only silence.

"I'll give you a clue: I said it fifteen minutes ago."

It took a while longer to show some reaction until a girl in the center of the classroom shyly lifted her hand.

"Four weeks?" She questioned, unsure.

"If we only count its time as a butterfly, yes. If we consider its entire life cycle, since it is an egg, we would be talking about four to eight weeks, maybe up to ten. But I'm rambling."

Cody stood right in the center of the board, took a blue marker and began to write some facts about it while continuing with his explanation. The children, for their part, wrote in their notebooks everything they considered relevant.

"These monarchs of the Methuselah generation, are a very unique case. Not only for the fact that they live longer than the others, but it seems that they MUST" he said with particular emphasis on this word, "to do so. You see, as I had told you, the monarchs, with their lives so ephemeral, mainly live only and exclusively for the survival of their species. They born, reproduce, and then die, in that simple order without more or less. When winter arrives, they need to travel south, to look for warmer lands, from Canada to central and southern Mexico. But having such short lives, how could they make this long journey? How could they survive all those months? Logic would tell you that their destiny is to die under those circumstances and the species would become extinct."

He paused a little, and turned back to the class, grinning from ear to ear with enthusiasm.

"But that's when these little ones come into action." he pointed out with great emphasis as if he was about to reveal a secret surprise. "It is as if nature itself were a conscious being, and knew exactly what it does. Because just when autumn arrives, when the cold begins, the generation born in these moments, is born with the ability to last much longer than their ancestors. And in this way, they can carry out the incredible task of making the long journey to the south, survive all those months, and then return home, to make way for the next generation, something that would be almost impossible otherwise. If we put it in perspective, it is as if you had a child, and this child was born with the capacity to live more than five hundred years. And everything, only to last the species. As if that child was born with a special and unique gift, with the fate of using it to ensure that his descendants survive. To make sure that our species live a generation more.

All the children, plus Matilda in the hall, listened to that part of the story with great interest. But it was only the young psychiatrist who got the full message of what he was trying to convey at that point. Did he expect that perhaps a particular child among his audience would understand it too? Or did he just throw the comment into the air, like a net waiting to catch something? Of course, it could just be a coincidence.

"Nature, from this point of view, is quite wise," the professor concluded. "We are all born with a purpose, although it is not always so clear which is..."

The bell rang at that moment, cutting off Cody's words, which still seemed at least to have been able to get to the point. The boys, impatient, began to store all their things with some haste.

"Remember the essay for next week. Play well, enjoy your recess."

Some of the children responded with a small _yes_ , but most of them went to the door of the room sooner rather than later. When they went out into the hall, some of them looked curiously at Matilda standing outside, who only smiled and greeted them in a friendly way; a few returned the greeting in the same way.

Once the room was wholly emptied, at least of students, Matilda took the liberty of finally entering. Cody had his back to the door, picking up his books and notes from the desk.

"Excellent class, teacher," Matilda exclaimed in a lively tone, which took the blond boy by surprise. "Although the story of the Methuselah Monarchs I liked the first ten times you told me, I love that new final turn that you added. Inspiring"

There was a playful tone, almost sarcastic in his words, but that did not make them false.

Cody turned quickly to the door when he heard her, and his face was filled with astonishment to see her there. However, this astonishment did not take long to become joy.

"Matilda! What an incredible surprise!" he exclaimed enthusiastically and immediately approached her with outstretched arms. The young brunette did the same so both could give each other a friendly hug.

"I'm sorry to get this way," the visitor apologized, once they were released. "I wanted to call you by phone, but it was impossible."

"I'm sorry..." Cody extended his hand to the desk, grabbing his cell phone and taking a quick look at his screen. "I always put it in silence when I am in class. But it's been so long; four years at least. What brings you to Seattle?"

"I'm dealing with a case of the Foundation in Oregon, near to Salem, which is getting a bit complicated. I thought, and Eleven also agreed with me, that you could help me with some things. If possible, of course."

"Of course yes," he did not hesitate to answer, smiling widely at his old friend. "Anything for you, and for Eleven."

Matilda also smiled, happy to see that the boy she met maybe twelve years ago was still the same kind boy she remembered, with the same positive and candid vibe around her. Although there were some subtle differences. She reminded, for example, always being noticeably taller than him, but at that moment, even with his heels, they seemed to be in quite similar statures. The glasses were also new, but they still looked great with their style. And not to mention the notorious security that transmitted when teaching. Although of course, perhaps talking about a subject that was as passionate as the butterflies, helped a lot in that.

While Cody continued to collect his things, she gave herself permission to take a seat at one of the chairs in the front row. Although it had not been that long since the end of his doctorate to say that it brought her nostalgia for when she was a student, it gave her a somewhat strange feeling. She looked thoughtfully at the whiteboards, with the data that Cody had written on them with down on them. Irremediably to his head came some memories, already distant, of his own days of elementary school. Of course, back then the boards were green, and they used chalks.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she only reacted when Cody began to erase the data about the Methuselah Monarchs.

"I do not know if I ever told you," she began suddenly, "but for a long time during my childhood and puberty, my future goal was to be a teacher."

"As your adoptive mother was, right?

"She still is. Although now she is more dedicated to being principal."

"And why did not you become it at the end?"

Matilda remained pensive for a while. It was a good question that she sometimes asked herself, but she did not have a concrete answer yet, but perhaps several that complemented each other.

"I don't know," she whispered slowly, more to herself than to the boy in front of her. "I guess it was just the turns that life gives."

When Cody finished erasing, Matilda stood up again, and approached to the professor's desk, with her briefcase in hand. She took out without waiting for the file that was assembling Samara's case, both the information Dr. Scott had given her, plus the info she got from her own sources. And, of course, the one she had been collecting in those past three days; it looked quite bulky, but even so she needed the information that was stored directly on her computer.

"Is the term Projected Thermography familiar to you?" Matilda asked. Cody just stared at her, with confusion in his eyes. "If not, don't worry. It is not very known. It is a theoretical psychic ability, which is based on being able to translate a mental image on some solid surface. It is mainly related to photographs and videos made to the user, but it is also presented on paper or practically any space.

Matilda opened the file and took out several X-rays, or at least that's what they looked like, and placed them on the desk. These were five. Cody sat in the chair behind the desk, adjusted his glasses, and looked at them. Although they seemed like X-rays, what exactly they were projected was not clear. They were not from the bones of a person, that was obvious. They seemed to be some kind of strange drawings, reflected in the acetate as flashes of light. In one, what appeared, at first sight, appeared to be a toy horse, floating on waves of the sea. In another one, he could see someone's feet, covered with boots, and below, apparently buried underground, what appeared to be a doll with syringes and nails in it; a pretty scary sight. In another, there was a tree with large branches on a horizon, and in another the silhouettes of several toys.

Cody was more than intrigued by what he saw.

"Do you say that someone captured these images with its mind?" he asked curiously, looking at Matilda again.

"A twelve-year-old girl, to be exact. According to what doctors told me, it is what appears every time they try to take an X-ray of any part of her body, as if instead of projecting their bones, what she is thinking does."

Cody's right eyebrow arched, as a sign of suspicion, forming an almost comical gesture on his face.

"And, do you think it's about that Thermography you mentioned a moment ago?"

"Yes, and no," Matilda answered, something eclectic. "Although the doctors who examined her first are using this term, I am thinking that it is something much more complicated than that. She can not only capture these images on radiographs or physical surfaces like these; she can also do it in the minds of people. She did it with her mother unintentionally, causing her to see things that have been dragging her to madness. And apparently she also did it with the horses of the ranch where she lives, making them go crazy, and many of them jumped into the sea.

"Jumped to the sea? Hey, I think I read something about that." As a biologist, it was understandable that an incident like that would get his attention. "They said in the newspapers that the reasons were unknown, or not?"

"For them perhaps, but for their parents, it was clear from the beginning what or who had been. She is able to create really lived images, and implant them in people and animals, sometimes without realizing it, provoking on them obsessive reactions, and sometimes even violent ones."

"Does she have telepathic qualities?"

"Yes, but as far as I've seen, quite a few. These are more sensations and small flashes that come to her suddenly. And I know, it's a contradiction. Logic would say that someone who could alter a person's mind in such a way, should have extraordinary telepathic abilities, but it is not like that, or at least she has not shown it. And you know as well as I that every Shining is very different. So, we couldn't judge it like a ruler carved in stone. Besides, it seems to me that she has not shown everything she is capable of doing. It's foreboding, but I think she can do many more things with her abilities that we still don't know, including herself."

Cody did not respond with words, but his expression showed that he didn't disagree with these statements, or at least had nothing to deny them. He put his attention back on the X-rays, looking at them with great interest. Some of those images were really strange; hard to believe that they had come from the mind of a child. Although, if someone knew the horrors that could hide in the head of a small child, that was him.

"What do you think?" Matilda questioned, somewhat anxiously. "Could it be something similar to your ability?"

"I'm not sure," the professor replied, not taking his eyes from the images. "The truth is, I don't think anyone has seen anything like it before, not even Eleven."

That statement left Matilda almost immediately stunned.

"Why you say that?"

Cody remained thoughtful. What was it that occupied his mind so much? After almost a minute of silence, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He stood up, walked to the door, and hurried to close it, locked inside.

"There is something you must understand about my Shining," he said with a somewhat serious tone, as opposed to the lively state he had moments ago.

Suddenly, he clasped his hands in front of his chest and carved his palms. He closed his eyes for a moment and then when he opened them again, he separated his palms by extending them to the sides, and from among them came a small and bright blue butterfly, sharp, that fluttered its wings in the air, until it was placed above their heads. But it was not the only one. Instead, it was followed by dozens equal, who began to fly around the room with complete freedom.

Matilda looked at them all with admiration, but not with surprise.

"When I materialize a thought in the environment," he continued explaining, "it lasts only until I stop thinking about it, or until I stop focusing on it. After that, it vanishes, like a curtain of smoke; as if it had never been here really."

One by one, all the blue butterflies began to disintegrate, like losses in a bluish haze that stretched everywhere. In a matter of seconds, all the butterflies vanished; in effect, as if they had never been there.

Cody's Shining was unique in its kind: it gave him the ability to materialize his thoughts and dreams in his environment, and manipulate it at his disposal. But not as simple intangible illusions, not as mere mirages; what he projected, really became real, at least for the period he decided. To Matilda, that ability had always seemed quite incredible, as well as beautiful. However, it could also become frightening, under certain circumstances. According to Eleven and Cody himself, it was quite difficult to control and maintain in a conscious state, but it became a hundred times more effective while he slept; but, consequently, more uncontrollable.

"It's the same when a telepath with illusionist skills, projects an image in the mind of a person; likewise, it only lasts until the user stops it, and after that, it also vanishes. They are just ideas, you understand me? Temporary images that we form in our heads, and then externalize. But this…"

Cody retook one of the x-rays and placed it against the light to see it better.

"These images are not temporary. They remain, they remain in the physical world, although the user is not even present. And if this happens with the images on the acetate, it should be the same with the minds of the people. In other words, the images she implants in their minds..." He made a slight reflective pause, "they never disappear. If she did this to her mother, the damage that she has done..."

"It could be permanent," Matilda concluded, anticipating the point Cody wanted to reach; he nodded, affirming his suspicion.

They both remained silent, digesting their resolution. Matilda had already considered it beforehand, but the fact that Cody confirmed it, made it even more real. The atmosphere in the room became somewhat gloomy at once. Was that what worried Eleven so much? What made her feel that maybe she was not ready to deal with something like that? It was probable, but it did not make clear to her what exactly she meant that this ability could be of a "different nature."

While she was meditating about it, Cody noticed another image that Matilda brought with her, but instead of being in an acetate, it was in a cardboard painting, of legal size. Cody took it, and took a look; the same tree, or at least one very similar, to that of the x-rays, was there embodied.

"She did that too?"

"Yes, just yesterday. I asked her to do it to corroborate that she was capable of forming the images consciously, or if only involuntarily. Apparently, it was the first option, although I don't think she understands very well how she did it."

Cody looked curiously at the strange drawing. He looked at it very closely, and also carefully moved his fingers over the surface of the cardboard, precisely where the tree strokes were. Something caught his attention immediately.

"It's strange. In the radiographs, this is not so remarkable, but here you can see that the drawing is not on the cardboard, or inside of it: it is in it as if it had been prefabricated with the image. As if it were part of the same material."

Hearing that, Matilda turned to see him quickly with her eyes wide open, but Cody didn't notice immediately.

"But the only way I can think that could be possible is that..."

"The cardboard has been modified at the molecular level!" Matilda hurried to add, noticing a remarkable emotion in her voice that took Cody by surprise. A small giggle followed, almost nervous. "How I did not realize before? The only way you could modify the image on radiographs is by manipulating the x-ray photons that reach the film so that the desired image is formed. That must have been my key. On cardboard and on paper it is the same. If you manage to modify the molecules of the material, they can be rearranged in a certain way, and this is how you get these images to appear. That's why the images last. He does not project them with his mind, his mind makes them physically, in the full extent of the word."

"Actually, it makes sense now that you mention it," Cody added, already a little infected by the emotion of his friend. "People often see the thoughts and memories of people as abstract and intangible; in other words, as something non-physical. But in biological terms, all this is based mainly on cellular and chemical compositions of our brains. That means…"

"These can equally be manipulated at a molecular level, such as cardboard or photons!" Matilda exclaimed more forcefully than she intended. "It is not strictly projected thermography in the conventional sense, but an entirely new skill: the ability to modify the minds of people on a physical level, not abstract as telepathy. That should be her primary skill, and the images that are captured on the x-rays and on paper, are only results derived from it, not the other way around as Dr. Scott and his team assumed. They went by the theory of thermography and did not see beyond, and I almost fell into the same!"

"But all this is merely speculative," the young professor hastened to point out. "It is impossible to know if in truth its ability is as we suppose, mainly because there is no precedent similar to this. It isn't telepathy, or telekinesis, or anything we have interacted with before. But also, if in fact, it is something like what you say, we would be talking about a skill too dangerous," he put particular emphasis on that last part. "Probably, with enough concentration and experience, it could completely destroy a person's mind, turn it into a vegetable, or even brainwash it entirely and turn it into another person. Or something like the Inception movie, but much more aggressive."

"Are not you exaggerating?" Matilda muttered, somewhat skeptically, to which Cody simply shrugged.

"Maybe, but I'm just going to the greatest extreme that comes to mind. I heard some other guys at the Foundation say that if they focused enough, Eleven was capable of causing a stroke to someone. Obviously, I never saw her do it, but..." He seemed to decide at the last moment not to continue with his prayer. "But, not everything has to be bad. In the right way, a skill like this could also be very beneficial. It could help people with some type of brain injury, disorders in neuronal development, or even help correct behavioral problems or dementia. Who knows? Perhaps also correct permanent commas, or cure emotional traumas."

"Probably," Matilda agreed. "But I think it will be a long time before they allow someone like her to make a psychic version of brain surgery to someone."

"Maybe. But what I try to say in the end is that, if it is what we think, it can bring many good things... but also many bad things." He stared at Matilda at that moment through the thin lenses of his glasses. "You must be very careful. What happened to her mother, can happen to you."

"Don't worry," she hurriedly responded, unconcerned. "Do you forget the protection that Eleven placed on us against this type of attack when we were children?"

"No, but remember that this might not be a normal psychic ability. Also, I remember that Eleven told us that this protection was more for long distance attacks so that no one could detect us or affect us from afar. And she also said to us that the closer we were, the less effective would it become. And you will be pretty close to this child."

Matilda remained silent, remarkably thoughtful. Actually, she didn't need Cody to mention it to her: she was fully aware of it. She had always used the excuse of that supposed protection as sustenance, to make her mother not care about her, and partly to give herself self-confidence in her work. But now, maybe it was not going to be enough.

Eleven had told her that this case seemed particularly dangerous to her, and now it was hard to pretend that she didn't think she could be right. Matilda could accept without a problem that Eleven was right; in fact, since her adolescence, she had become used to it. But what she couldn't stand, would give the reason to Dr. Scott and his fears, although these no longer seemed so irrational.

He sighed wearily and sat down again at one of the desks.

"I had thought to ask you to accompany me in a session so you could meet this girl, and give me your opinion more first hand; especially about her shining. But I will understand if, after all this, you prefer not to get involved so directly."

"Don't worry, I'll do it with pleasure," Cody hurried to answer, taking Matilda a little by surprise. "As I said, I would do anything for you... And for Eleven!" He added quickly, almost nervous.

Matilda could only let out a small giggle, which she tried to disguise, but it still made the boy's cheeks flush a little.

"What's the girl's name?" Cody asked quickly, trying to change the theme.

"Her name is Samara, Samara Morgan."

Cody's face formed a strange grimace of confusion.

"Morgan?"

"Yes. Something happens?"

"No, nothing. It's just that Morgan was the name of my mother... my biological mother," corrected quickly. "What a coincidence. Maybe she's my relative."

Looking back at Matilda, he noticed that her face had become grave, so much so that for a moment he came to think that he had said something that had annoyed her. But before Cody could ask her what was wrong, she pronounced...

"No, I don't think she is."

Cody just looked at her, confused by that strange reaction.

 **END OF CHAPTER 04**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

— _The character of **Cody Hobson** or **Cody Morgan** is based on the child protagonist of the movie **Before I Wake** of **2016** , now around **twenty-five years-old** , in contrast to the **eight** he had in the film. Therefore it is taken that the events of **Before I Wake** occur several years earlier than originally. Cody's skills will be based entirely on those exposed in the film, but perhaps with some slight adjustments to give them more explanation._

— _The explanation given in this chapter to the psychic abilities of **Samara Morgan** are mostly creations of my own imagination since, in their respective films, it is never explained in a very detailed or explicit way how they work. Throughout this story, this theme will be played frequently and will continue to be explained._


	5. 05 Evelyn

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 05.  
** **Evelyn**

Despite the tightness of her schedule, Matilda accepted Cody's invitation to eat, since she would have to do it anyway, and the road to Moesko Island was still long. They went to a small home-cooked food restaurant near to the school, which Cody recommended extensively. They went on to talk a bit more about the issue, but mostly they took the time to catch up, talk about what they had done all that time, and update their phone numbers and emails. They also agreed when Cody could go to Eola and meet Samara; they chose one day of the following week, depending on how the girl responded during those days.

Matilda only took an exact hour to eat, and then she said goodbye and withdrew, even with some food on her plate. She had to take the I-5 south again, get to Tacoma, and then go back up north, forming a _"U"_ on the map of her GPS, which would take two to two and a half hours, until arriving at Port Townsend.

For those moments she was already somewhat exhausted. She was awake early, and almost all that time she had spent driving on the road. She was tempted to sleep in Port Townsend or Olympia after her appointment since the mere thought of having to drive back to Salem made her rather lazy. However, in the morning she had to see Samara early, as Dr. Scott had programmed it; a significant part of her was convinced that he had done it on purpose, knowing in advance that she would have to make all that trip. But whatever it was, sleeping away from Eola that night was not an option.

She arrived at Port Townsend a little before three-thirty but had to wait for the ferry until four. During the waiting time, and during the same trip to the island, she took the opportunity to stretch her legs, send some emails, and rest a bit on the seat of his car. She also tried to rehearse in her head what she would say and do once arrived at the Morgan Horse Ranch, and meet with Samara's father.

The original intention was to review with him the opinion of the psychiatrist after those days of having spoken with her daughter, as well as inform him about what the plan would be to continue from then on. However, after reading the information that Eleven had sent her, the conversation would surely have to be diverted to that topic.

She also needed to talk to Mr. Morgan about the idea of Cody talking to Samara someday soon. Of course, she would name him as a colleague of the Foundation, which was not a lie. But she would not tell him exactly why she thought it could be useful. Nor did she plan to say to him what she had talked with Cody that morning and his theory about the true nature of Samara's Shining; it was indeed just a theory until now, after all. What Matilda least wanted was for him to start making ideas in his head that they were not, especially concerning the effects it might have had on his wife's mind.

The ferry left her on the island around four forty. Since they were approaching, Matilda was struck by the emblematic lighthouse that was rising in the distance, apparently not working for those times. The sky had gone completely gray, and lightning was heard in the distance. Not a drop of water was falling yet, but Matilda was sure it would not be so long before it started. The place was relatively small, and it did not take long to find the Morgan Ranch; it seemed to be somehow the best-known place on the island.

The place looked somewhat crowded, despite the time. Workers came and went, hauling horses, feeding them, repairing fences... She didn't know much about horses, but the ones she caught sight of, they seemed really beautiful, from their form to their trot. Could those have been the only ones who survived the incident with Samara?

Matilda drove the car to the main house and parked it right front it. Richard Morgan, a tall and stocky man with black hair, adorned with a few gray hairs, came out to meet her from the door, even before she got out of the vehicle. She recognized him immediately, having searched for photos on the internet previously. As soon as he saw her, a broad smile of joy crossed the man's lips.

"Dra. Honey, if I'm not mistaken," he said enthusiastically, as he descended the porch steps. "It's a pleasure to have you in front of me finally."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Morgan."

"Call me Richard, with confidence."

He then offered her his big right hand, which she accepted in a firm handshake that ended up leaving her somewhat sore; however, she had to disguise it.

Mr. Morgan led her into the house, more specifically into the living room. Matilda took a seat in one of the large couches, while her host prostrated himself in an individual one. He wore a khaki jacket, and blue jeans, somewhat stained due to the manual tasks of the ranch, most likely.

"I'm pleased to meet you, doctor. You look even younger in person, with all respect."

"Do not worry," she answered calmly, although the effusiveness with which he received her really confused her a little.

"I do not know what you're doing exactly with that girl, but whatever it is, is working." Matilda raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The horses feel much better and have behaved better. And the doctors have been told me that even my wife is getting better."

"Did they say that?"

"Yes, Dr. Scott phoned me early. He didn't say it, but I'm sure everything is thanks to you."

Matilda nodded slowly, although deep down, she was not entirely sure of that statement. She could theorize that Mr. Morgan supposed Samara continued to have some effect, even at a distance, on his horses and his wife. She had no basis yet to affirm this was not the case, but she didn't think that was the case. If there was an improvement in both cases, it could be due to other factors.

She was tempted to share such a conjecture, but maybe it was not the best time, considering it was their first meeting, and whatever that idea seemed to put him in a good mood, that was seen long ago needed. Therefore, instead, she just smiled and said:

"I only do my duty."

"And it is an excellent duty. Whatever you do, continue. No matter what it costs, okay?"

"I thank you, but as I told you in our first contact, we are a non-profit association."

"Then look at it as a donation, yes?" He finished right after with a subtle wink of his right eye. "So you can continue with your work."

That bothered Matilda a little, so she preferred to divert the subject to the final purpose of her visit.

"Let's talk about that later, if that's okay." She crossed her legs and adjusted her skirt. "I know I had told you that my visit intended to give you my first impressions after these sessions with Samara and decide the next steps to take. But before I get to that, I'd like to question you about something important."

"Whatever, tell me."

Matilda took a deep breath, held the air for a few seconds, and then released it slowly. To give the impression of always being safe and firm, could be very exhausting in the long run.

"Why did not you inform me that Samara is adopted?"

The smile on Richard's face abruptly vanished upon hearing such a question. If a moment ago he looked happy and confident, now he seemed surprised, even worried. He remained silent for long seconds, perhaps asking himself if he had heard correctly; however, there was not much room for misunderstandings.

"How did you know about that?" He questioned her after a while, with a slightly defensive tone that not surprise Matilda.

"We have our sources," was her answer. And it was true; sources of a particular kind, indeed. The same sources that had informed her about everything that Dr. Scott had decided to omit in the information he had given them.

Matilda expected Richard to question him more about it, but he didn't. Instead, he took a little longer for himself before spoke again. He settled back in his chair and rubbed his face nervously with one hand.

"Is that relevant to help her?"

"Maybe yes, or maybe not. But, your daughter's ability is exceptional, even by the standards of the children we used to treat. We need all the possible information, to be able to know the right method to help her. And her origin and history is an essential part of that information."

Richard snorted and drummed his fingers on the armrests of the chair. The subject seemed to be complicated for him... or perhaps not precisely for him. Matilda thought it was not him or Samara who worried him.

"Well, that's true," he said after a while. "Being a mother is what my wife wanted the most in the whole world; even more than his horses. We tried hard, but pregnancies could not come to fruition. After four attempts, we went to see a specialist in England, but it did not work either. In the end, we decided to the adoption."

A smile, almost nostalgic, drew on his lips, as he stared at no specific point.

"You must have seen her eyes light up the first time she saw Samara. I'd never seen her so happy before then."

"And you?" Asked Matilda, "was not you happy?"

Richard was silent for a while, thinking.

"Samara was such a beautiful baby. But maybe we were not meant to be parents. Maybe that was God's will, and we should not have gone against it."

Those words caused deep disapproval in Matilda, which she tried to disguise. She couldn't prevent remembering in those moments the words that Samara had told her the other day, about how she felt that her parents hated her. According to Dr. Scott, that statement was not entirely wrong... and Matilda was beginning to see that maybe he was right.

"Samara knows?" Asked Mr. Morgan.

"No, I don't think so."

"And will you tell her?"

"It doesn't concern me to do it. It will be better if Samara listens the true from you two." Richard didn't answer anything, but by his face, it did not seem that the idea tempted him very much. "Do you know who her parents were?"

"I don't. I think her mother died in childbirth, but..." He paused a little thoughtfully. "Maybe in that refuge for women they can tell you more."

"Refuge? What refuge?"

Without saying anything, Richard stood up from his seat and walked towards the stairs. He didn't go up but instead opened a door under them, one that evidently took to the basement, and then he went there.

Matilda, on the other hand, sat there, not knowing if she was supposed to follow him, or wait for him. He thought about that last mention to a women's refuge; what exactly did he mean? She hoped that it was what he had gone to do, with the intention of clarifying it.

Richard returned after a long time, holding on his hands what Matilda initially thought was a rectangular box. However, when he was closer, it seemed, in fact, more similar to a small suitcase, somewhat outdated appearance, with beige fabric lining. He walked towards her, and placed the box on the small coffee table, right in front of her. Matilda could contemplate it more clearly at that moment; it had some marks of moisture and dust, and in the upper left corner had a red rose, a pretty one.

"We got this suitcase when we adopted her," Mr. Morgan said as she inspected the box outside. "They only told us that it was from her mother and she kept it for her."

A suitcase that belonged to her mother? That was interesting.

Matilda took the liberty of opening the front latches of the box and removing its lid to check the content. In effect, it seemed to be a suitcase, containing several garments, all feminine. On top of all of them, however, there was a blanket, gray in color, with blue letters embroidered on it that said:

 _Property of Saint Mary Magdalen  
_ _Women's Shelter_

That must be what he was referring to. Matilda took the blanket very carefully between her fingers and lifted it up to get it out. As soon as his fingers touched the fabric, a deep cold ran down her entire back, and then the whole body. The sensation lasted for about a minute, but then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Something happens?" Richard asked, already back in his seat.

"No, nothing," she said hastily, but not sure. Psychometry was another of those skills she was supposed to lack, but that just as often brought her some sensations, almost always not pleasant. "You never showed it to Samara?"

"In the beginning, we thought to give it to her when she became older. But after, we just didn't care anymore." The disdain in his tone was quite obvious. "Keep it. Do what you want with it."

Matilda was not convinced at first, but in the end, she took the floor, because that suitcase was the only clue to find Samara's biological mother, and perhaps also her father. But she would only borrow it temporarily; all these things belonged only to Samara.

They put that issue aside, although it was not so simple. They talked about the original topic that they were supposed to discuss and also commented about Cody and her intention to support them. Mr. Morgan no longer seemed as effusive as in the beginning, but still answered all his questions, and agreed with all his proposals. Matilda also asked for the doll that Samara had requested, and it was delivered without much trouble.

In the end, the visit to Moesko had been quite rewarding. However, she had brought with her some new questions to answer.

* * *

At six with fifteen, Matilda and her vehicle were already on the ferry to return to land. She had so much to think about, and the journey was actually a bit short to cover everything. She was somewhat surprised by the coincidence that existed between Samara, Cody and her, in the sense that the three had ended up being adopted by other people at an early age. Of course, she had practically given herself up for adoption, but the same case was repeated.

And it was not the first time she saw this characteristic in one of the children of the Foundation; in fact, Eleven herself, from what she had told her, had lived much of her childhood apart from her mother. Would it be something recurrent in children with the Shining to have to be separated irremediably from their parents? She didn't seriously believe that there was a real relationship between one thing and another, but the coincidence seemed more than curious.

But whatever it was, analyzing that would not get her anywhere. Matilda preferred to take a look at the suitcase of Samara's mother, which was currently resting in the passenger seat. She placed the box on her legs and opened it again. Took another look at the clothes, but there was nothing out of the ordinary or something useful; no other garment caused her any different sensation when touched it.

Suddenly, under all the clothes, Matilda found something else; something different. It was a notebook, hard-paste something corroded. It had printed on it the drawing of a woman and a girl on its cover, simulating some kind of religious painting. A curious possession that stood out from the rest of the contents of the suitcase; would it be from Samara's mother? Would she have made that drawing?

Curious, she opened the notebook and began to leaf through it. She didn't pass on the first page when found something that surprised her. Written in beautiful cursive letters, it read:

 _For Samara_

"Samara?" She exclaimed in a low voice, like a thought that escaped from his lips on its own.

If that notebook was from Samara's biological mother... Why was that same name written there? Samara was the name that his mother had chosen for her in the beginning? Did the Morgans decide to leave her the same name? Well, she had not changed her first name when she was adopted, nor Cody. However, both had already been older and conscious; Samara had been adopted, from what she had understood, when she was very, very young.

Maybe she was overthinking it. Perhaps, in fact, that was her name at birth, and just her adoptive parents did not want to change it. This could be that simple. Even so, for some reason, it caused her some confusion.

Matilda slid her fingers slowly over the letters written on the yellowish sheet. Nothing happened. Not that she really expected it, but maybe it would have been helpful.

She continued to leaf through, checking its contents above. She expected to find a diary or a sketchbook. However, it turned out to be something more strangely. It seemed like a compendium of legends and myths, newspaper clippings, literary works, stories of black magic, paganism, and satanic rituals. There were notes on the sides of the pages and at the bottom of these, but mostly they looked like scribbles written in a hurry and challenging to understand at first glance.

Matilda was not sure what it all meant. If she had to give a theory based on what she saw, would have to assume that the person behind that notebook had some kind of obsession with the dark arts. But not from the perspective of a practitioner, but from someone with eager curiosity.

Among all that jumble of information without a logical order, there seemed to be two recurring themes. The first was the conception as the result of interaction with dark forces alien to the human ones, mainly speaking of demons. Matilda was slightly alarmed to consider the fact that this thought might come from the mind of a pregnant woman. But the second issue was the intrigue: water. There were many legends and writings talking about water as a source of life and death; of its nature, both physical and magical.

 _Water_ , she thought to herself. Samara had told her that in her nightmares there was always water. Would it be a coincidence?

It was better not to draw more conclusions based on a notebook that was not even sure who it belonged to. Maybe it was not owned by Samara's biological mother, and it might belong to Mrs. Morgan, made during her delusions caused by the events that occurred before. Or, even, it could be Samara's own...

No scenario was more favorable than the other, but both were possible. After all, the suitcase was right there, in their house.

She was about to put that issue aside and rest what remained of the road to land. But when she gave the last turn over the page, it was found with something that was not like the rest. Stuck in one of the leaves, was a black and white photo of a young girl, maybe sixteen years old, holding a baby wrapped in a white blanket in her arms. The woman's dark hair covered most of her face, so that very little of her features was reached.

She was not Mrs. Morgan; that was for sure. From the photos she had found of her on the Internet, she had nothing similar to that girl, even if it was from when she was young. It could be another random cut like all the others. But, what if she was...?

Matilda put the notebook back in the box and put it back in the other seat. She was so immersed in everything that by the time she managed to react, was not only on the ground, but she was already driving down the road to the south, and it was already close to seven o'clock. When she was finally conscious, pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. She pulled out her phone and searched on the Internet for the name of the Women's Shelter that was printed on the blanket. Was not surprised to see that there was at least a dozen throughout the United States with that name; however, only one in Washington. In fact, it was in Silverdale, a town about fifty kilometers in the direction she was going; she passed by there on her way.

Matilda didn't believe in things like fate or luck... but that was close enough.

She thought for a moment about her next move. Looked at the time again; there was more than seven already; with luck, it would be a little before eight when she arrived in Silverdale, and she still lacked all the way back to Salem after that.

She could go another day...

Maybe it was too late, and there would be nobody to attend her...

And, what if it was not even the same refuge from which the blanket came?

Her fingers tightened nervously on the steering wheel. What if she asked Eleven what she should do? No, she couldn't be asking for advice whenever felt doubt with something. As it turned out, she apparently lacked a certain kind of mysterious experience; what would Eleven think if she called her at that time to ask about something like that? Especially considering that in Indiana it was almost eleven o'clock at night.

In the end, she decided to venture. Anyway, had to go through there, so if it were not the place or nobody attended her, she would just lose a few minutes.

For her good or bad luck, depending on how she saw it, she found the site fast, and there were still people attending because they closed the doors at ten o'clock; enough time. The place looked like some kind of old mansion, of enormous size and large patios. Matilda was not sure if indeed it had been any house before, but it definitely didn't seem made initially to be a shelter for women. She parked her vehicle on the opposite sidewalk, and got out in a hurry, but not before taking out the photo from the notebook, which she supposed could be Samara and her mother. She would try to see if someone recognized her and could tell anything about.

The place was attended by nuns; she had guessed by the place's name. At first, none of the women with black and long habits seemed very willing to take care of her. Her almost bureaucratic attire, perhaps made them think she was some kind of lawyer and preferred to get back; very reasonable. But after five attempts, she found one, about forty or forty-five years old, who agreed to see the photograph. As soon as she saw it, her expression betrayed her immediately: she had recognized the girl in the photo.

She told her that she should talk to the chief nun; she could help her about it and offered to guide her to her office. The sister went in first and asked to wait for a little in the hall. She was in maybe five or seven minutes. Matilda tried, wrongly, to hear a bit of what they said inside, but apparently only murmured slowly between them. When the door opened again, the nun who had guided her told that she could go in, and she did.

The office was dimly lit. The chief nun didn't wear a habit, but that did not surprise her very much. Instead, she wore a black dress, calf-length, quite old-fashioned. Her dark brown hair was wholly pulled back, and her lips were painted with a shade too intense for a nun. As soon as she entered, the sister looked at her with some severity from his desk; behind it, there were long windows with closed curtains.

"Let me see the picture, please," the chief nun exclaimed as the only greeting, and then extended her hand to the front.

Direct to the point, that pleased Matilda. She supposed that at that time of night, anyone would want to finish any pending soon. The other nun retired, leaving them two alone. Matilda went to the desk and handed the photograph in question to the woman. She put on a pair of thick black-framed glasses, which she used to take a look at the photo. Contemplated it for almost a minute without saying anything. Matilda, for her part, remained standing in front of her, because the nun had not even offered her the option to sit down. After a while, she finally lowered both, the photo and her glasses, and turned to see Matilda again, with a seriousness that Matilda seemed somewhat forced.

"Why are you looking for this girl?" The chief nun questioned accusingly, but Matilda did not react. The mere fact that she asked her that, coupled with the reaction of the first nun, confirmed that they indeed knew the girl on the photo. It was still a risky assumption, but if she added the blanket with the name of that place, and that in the picture the woman was carrying a baby, it was easy to add one plus one and give two.

Matilda decided to respond with all the confidence she was capable of transmitting, even though she did not really feel it.

"It's about her daughter, Samara," she remarked considerably on the name to detect any reaction. And indeed she had it, almost immediately: a slightly amused smile.

"Samara... I haven't heard that name for a long time," the woman in black said with a bit of nostalgia in her voice. She thought for a few moments. "What's wrong with her? How do you know that child?"

"Samara is fine. She grew well and healthy, and now she is a very pretty young girl. But right now she needs help, and it's important to me know everything you can tell me about her mother to give her that help."

"And you are...?"

 _We could have started there_ , Matilda thought inside her mind. She concluded immediately that the bad mood she felt must be because of all the accumulated fatigue of that day, and the same must be for the woman in front of her. For the same reason, she had to be careful in what said, and how said it.

"I'm Dr. Matilda Honey," she introduced herself, just before giving herself permission to sit down. "I belong to the Eleven Foundation. I'm from Boston, but right now I'm temporarily in Eola, Oregon, treating Samara."

"Treating what exactly?" There was genuine concern in her voice. "What happened? It must be something urgent to come from so far at this hours."

If only she knew all the real journey she had to do that day...

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you. Many of the details are confidential, as you must understand."

"Yes, of course," murmured the chief nun, not entirely convinced. "What kind of doctor you are?"

Matilda hesitated to answer, but she had no justification in which she could shield herself from doing so.

"I'm a psychiatrist."

A sharp sigh, something liberating from her perspective, came from the woman's lips.

"I was afraid of that..."

Matilda did not understand the reason for that comment, and before she could ask what it meant, the woman stood up and went to a door on the right side of the room. The door opened onto a small room with many file cabinets, where she began sniffing.

"They tell me I should pass all this to digital," she said from that room, aloud. "And I just wonder, what time do I go to do that? Also, I don't know how useful it can be to keep this record in the long term. Usually when one of these girls leaves, rarely someone comes asking for them... except you, of course."

She returned after a few minutes of searching, with an open file in her hands.

"Luckily we have no legal obligation to confidentiality. And if it's about helping that kid, I'll do what I can." She then placed the file right in front of Matilda. "Her name was Evelyn."

Matilda focused her attention on the file. Between papers, there was an exact copy of the photo she had brought, but in color. In it, she could see her dark brown hair and pale skin.

"Only Evelyn?" Matilda asked, curious.

"She never told us anything else. She was always very reserved with her past."

The chief nun returned to her seat, leaning entirely against the back of her chair. Matilda took a look at the first page of the file, which was apparently a standard registration form, with Evelyn's primary data. However, beyond the name and age, sixteen years old, there was no other relevant information, not even her birthday.

"She arrived here with seven months of pregnancy," the chief nun informed her. "Misaligned, scared, bringing only an old suitcase and what she was wearing."

"Mr. Morgan, Samara's adoptive father, told me she died in childbirth," Matilda pointed out as she continued to review the file.

"Well, it's not like that. The labor was calm and without complications."

The psychiatrist raised her face and looked at the nun, somewhat surprised.

"And how did she die then?"

"She didn't die. She is still alive... As far as I know."

Now that took her by surprise. In retrospect, she realized that the only thing that made her suppose the mother had died, was the same assumption from Mr. Morgan.

"She's here?"

"No, twelve years ago we had to intern her; for her safety and for Samara's. She's in the Psychiatric Institute, right here in Silverdale."

"Have she been there for twelve years?"

"At least I know she was there ten years ago. And from what they told me, I doubt she has come out in the last couple of years; not by their own will."

"Why did you intern her?"

"Postpartum depression, it's how you call it, right? Or so we thought it was at the beginning, but soon it was obvious that it was more complicated than that." The woman in black rubbed her eyes a bit with her fingers, and then let out a sharp and unobtrusive yawn. "Since she arrived here, her behavior was quite strange, almost paranoid. She did not sleep and was scared all the time. She said that her baby was talking to her, even when she was still in the womb. Constantly repeated that someone would come and take her daughter away and she couldn't allow it."

"The father?"

"Maybe," the nun answered with a shrug, "though she never spoke about him directly. She seemed convinced that he didn't exist, that her baby was the daughter of something else... something that whispered to her from the sea."

"The sea?"

"Strange, right? But you are the psychologist; you tell me what it could mean."

Matilda felt that almost like an attack, but again, she attributed it to fatigue. Likewise, without knowing the exact details of her condition and the hallucination characteristics, she had no way of knowing what that meant precisely; it could literally be almost anything.

"She put everyone nervous," the chief nun continued, "but in general she was harmless, sweet and kind to everyone. But, when Samara was born, her condition worsened. Evelyn was sure there was something wrong with the baby. She was afraid of Samara and insisted she talked to her and showed her things that only she saw..."

Matilda shuddered a little, though discreetly, after those last words.

"She was so persistent, and many of the sisters of that time began to fear her too. But they were just ravings of that poor girl. Samara, in fact, was a girl so well carried, so quiet. She never cried or causes problems. Well, except when she was bathed. In those moments, she cried so hard, it scared us all. We never knew why. It seemed as she was afraid of water."

Again, another fact that made her jump, even mentally.

"Fortunately, if you can call something in this like that, was those same cries that woke us up that night..."

The almost lugubrious way in which she had mentioned that last statement, left Matilda on the lookout. The chief nun stood up then, and walked to one of the windows, opening the curtains with a tug of the cord. Matilda stood up too, and walked quickly to her side, and peered in the direction she was looking. Below, in the inner courtyard of the house, lit by a dim lantern, was a medium-sized circular fountain with a statue of a cherub with a vase from which sprang a stream of water.

"Evelyn tried to drown Samara, right there in the fountain," the nun added suddenly, leaving Matilda stunned. "They told me that while she was singing to her, she was trying to submerge her in the water. But the sisters stopped her before she did it. She kicked, shouted and scratched at the sisters who held her. It was horrifying. Evelyn screamed again and again that she had to kill her to save her. We had to call the authorities, and they took care of Evelyn, and we took care of arranging Samara's adoption."

Matilda remained silent, staring at the fountain. She didn't know what caused her more commotion: the story, or how everything seemed to fit in some way with several points of the present.

"You look disturbed, dear," she heard the chief nun speaking to her with a sweeter tone, and only then did she manage to emerge from her immersion. "Would anything help if I told you that it is not the worst thing that has happened in the lives of these girls?" Again, another sigh, but this was more of weariness. "They all come here damaged, physically and emotionally, and often we do not have the means to help them as they need it. That was Evelyn's case."

"I know you should have done as much as you could to help her."

"Thank you," the nun smiled at her, and then walked back to her desk, though she did not sit down in her chair. "I don't know what else I can say about it. If it is a mental illness what the little girl is suffering from, I am afraid that maybe she could have inherited it from her mother. That works like that, right?"

"Sometimes. Have you had contact with Evelyn?"

"Directly, no. Not since they took her away twelve years ago. Since then, only once every two or three years, I get some small news about her, but nothing hopeful."

"Do you think I can see her?

"In psychiatric?" She quickly checked her small wristwatch. "At this time it is very likely not. Try tomorrow."

"I must be in Salem early tomorrow."

"Then I suppose it could be another day," the nun concluded, shrugging her shoulders, and picking up the file again. Matilda was tempted to ask to lend it with her, or at least let see it more calmly, but the chief nun took it back to the archivist without hesitation.

It was okay, Matilda supposed. Likewise, by the little she had seen, there was not much information that could be useful, beyond what the chief nun had just told her.

"I don't know how much talk with her can help you with your problem. I don't know if she is capable at this time of engaging in a coherent conversation."

"I don't lose anything with trying," she answered, and then Matilda headed for the exit herself. "Thanks for your time, and excuse the intrusion."

* * *

That was more than she expected to get that day. She hurried out of the shelter and headed straight for her vehicle. The mercurial lights were already on, and the sun was practically hidden. She sat in the driver's seat, and there she remained, motionless, something gone.

She had to recapitulate a little. The first thing: Samara's biological mother was alive; in fact, she must have been her same age at that time. What should she do with that piece of information? Maybe she had to keep it secret, at least to Samara. Her condition was quite unstable to inform her right now that she is adopted, and her real mother was alive. Besides, as she had told Mr. Morgan before, that was something that didn't belong to her.

In the second place, there were two strange facts in the story that the chief nun had just told her, and that they had made her react. Starting with the fact that Evelyn claimed that her baby spoke to her and showed her things. That could easily be explained as delirium. However, it took on another meaning if she considered that the baby in question had such extraordinary ability, one she still did not even know how to call.

But it was difficult to understand. It was practically impossible for a newborn baby to show such abilities at such a young age, much less when she was not even born. Further, according to the Morgans, such incidents began to emerge little by little over the last couple of years. Had Samara really been responsible for that? It was hard not to see the resemblance between this case and what Mrs. Morgan suffered. Although of course, it could be a coincidence.

And then there was the story of the fountain, and how her mother tried to drown Samara. The story alone was pretty disgusting. But what struck her most was that it agreed with the nightmares Samara had told the other day.

 _With water... there's water always. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning and I can't get out._

In the file that had been given to her about the case, it was commented that sometimes Samara had shown a particular aversion to the water, especially in high amounts like in tubs, swimming pools, and the sea. Could something of that be related? It was rare, to say nothing ordinary, for someone to keep memories of such an early age, in which they aren't even able to understand in the least what surrounds them. Would it be another coincidence? And what about the cuts and notes in the notebook that also touched the water issue?

The case had complicated even more than she expected. Was that what Eleven meant, with which she had to investigate Samara's past more thoroughly? That's what she said when she told her she lacked the right experience?

Her head hurt, and she felt very exhausted. She had to make notes of everything she had discovered that day, and analyze them more calmly the next day. For now, she went to the nearest store to buy the most loaded coffee she found, and shortly after was on the road, with the last rays of the sun and some rain starting.

She didn't know how convenient it would be for her case to speak with Evelyn if indeed she was still there. She also didn't know if she was exceeding her obligations and functions, putting her nose into something that didn't concern her. Perhaps the best thing was to leave everything like that, and not disturb it more than the account, and prevent to bring negative consequences both to Samara and her new parents. Matilda would choose not to do so, and then decide based on how the sessions with Samara progressed.

In truth, she felt tired; she just wanted to get to her hotel and go to bed, even if she had to do it with her clothes on.

 **END OF CHAPTER 05**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _— **Richard Morgan** is wholly based on the respective character of **The Ring (2002)** and **The Ring 2 (2005)** , without any change beyond the temporary change mentioned in the **Notes of Chapter 01** , which places the events between Samara, his parents, and Eola Psychiatric, in a more current era. This applies in turn with the whole story told, both by Richard and by the refuge nun, about Samara and her biological mother._


	6. 06 Orphan

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 06.  
** **Orphan**

The long black limo, just washed and waxed, was moving at careful step through that low neighborhood of southern Los Angeles. Since they left the main avenue to enter those streets, the appearance of the buildings and sidewalks seemed to be degrading gradually. The driver, with the stereotypical black, suit, pants and tie, and a matching driver's hat, was visibly nervous. Traces of sweat made his forehead and nose shine. His hands were clinging to the steering wheel, and steadily looked in the rear-view mirrors to make sure no one was following them, or there was no one nearby suspicious.

On the contrary, his passenger in the back seat not only looked calm: he seemed fascinated. The young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, was looking out the window at his right hand, admiring the dirty sidewalks, the graffiti on the walls, and the people with unique appearances. It was already close to sunset, and slowly everything became darker. It seemed as if the atmosphere of the place adjusted and modified accordingly.

From the neck of the young man, was hanging a professional camera, black, clean and shiny, almost like new. When he saw something interesting enough on the way, without any hesitation, he raised the camera, placed it in front of his face, and took a picture from the moving car. He portrayed without problem some boys playing basketball on a public court. A beefy man, tall enough to perhaps double his height, with a dark sweatshirt, and his hands hidden in its pockets; he was standing on the stool, with his headphones on, and doing nothing more than waiting. The boy took another picture of a young girl in a white nurse's suit, although somewhat opaque in parts, who walked hastily down the sidewalk with her eyes downcast as if she didn't want to look at anyone on her way to the bus stop.

But what was most abundant, and what he managed most to capture with his camera, were women. But not women like the young nurse: women in small outfits, high heels, extravagant makeup, and flashy hairstyles. Not everyone had all of these at the same time, but at least two. All of them standing at some point on the sidewalk, doing nothing but wait, like the man in the black sweatshirt, but surely not expecting the same.

He noticed that several of those girls turned to see his beautiful vehicle sideways. That was not weird. The weird thing was in fact, that none seemed surprised, scared or surprised by his presence.

Sure, that was supposed to be the kind of place that "good" people did not visit. The type of locale where honorable and respectable people of society, never put a foot. But that was just a bad joke, wasn't it? More than one of those supposed good people, put more than their feet in those parts, and he knew that. For the same reason, more than surprised, those girls were waiting for it. They were waiting for that elegant limousine to edge right next to them, for the rear window to open and for a man to stick his head out of it, shaking a wad of bills in his fingers.

That was, in fact, the kind of place where people with indiscreet vehicles like that went in search of discreet fun for those hours. A funny discrepancy, he thought.

"Is not it fascinating, Billy?" Asked the boy, a moment after having taken a picture.

"Sir?" The driver murmured, turning to look him confused in the mirror. The young man moved away from the window and settled into his seat, but did not withdraw his eyes from the outside.

"How long did it take us to get here?"

"Forty minutes, sir; because of the traffic."

"Forty minutes, because of the traffic," he repeated it slowly as if saying it out loud made it more meaningful. "That's what separates the most luxurious and luminous place in this city... from this. For many, it would be enough. But if you put it in perspective with the distances that separate entire countries, is not it, in fact, quite a bit?"

The driver didn't answer anything, and he didn't expect him to do either.

They continued for about another minute. After turning a corner, the number of those women on the street appeared to be relatively higher. That should be the right place.

"Stop here," the boy said to the driver in a commanding tone, leaning his body slightly forward. The man obeyed, bringing the vehicle to the sidewalk.

Once edged, the young man did not waste time and immediately got out, with his camera in his neck, in addition to a black sports bag that was hung over his shoulder.

"Are you sure it's here, Mr. Thorn?" The driver said worriedly, leaning out the window.

"Completely," he replied in turn, with a wide and candid smile, while adjusting the lens of his camera. "Thanks, Billy. I'll call you when I want you to pick me up."

"Do not you want me to...?"

"No, I don't want you to come with me," he interrupted abruptly, finishing easily the sentence he was about to utter. "Go, now."

The boy started walking along the sidewalk at a calm pace, so the driver had no choice but to obey and leave. Not far away, but enough so that his order was considered fulfilled.

The vehicle that transported the boy perhaps did n0t stand out as much among the people. Or his black suit jacket and trousers perfectly ironed and trimmed, his Armani shirt without a tie, or his shoes polished and shiny. But what could draw the attention of several of the individuals who crossed with him by the stick, or saw him from the other side of the street, was his apparent age: quite young, at least for the average of men who used to walk in those parts. And besides, he was alone, with such expensive clothes, a much more expensive watch on his wrist, and a camera even more than this on his neck.

He realized without the slightest problem that several individuals looked at him from afar and whispered to each other. What were they saying? He supposed it, and no need to dig deeper than necessary. People like them were always the clearest, especially their evil intentions. But he was not worried, because as well as his intentions, his cowardice was also apparent. If they knew what was in the bag, would that give them more brave? He would love it that way; with one of them being encouraged to try, it would be quite fun. But none did; they all let him go his way, without bothering him beyond his prying eyes.

The boy continued walking, taking some photos in his advance, of everything he saw interesting.

He could have gone with the one closest to him when he got out of the car, but it would not have helped him. He was busy finding the right one, the one who could tell him exactly what he needed to know, without causing more problems than necessary.

After turning around that block, he found two women in a corner facing each other; one blonde and the other brunette and dark skin, and both with small and tight clothes, and a lot of makeup. Both smoked a cigarette. He felt it almost immediately after putting his eyes on them: they were the right ones, or at least one of them was.

He approached them with naturalness, and when they noticed him, both looked at him with slight confusion in their eyes.

"Aren't you too young to be around these parts, kid?" Questioned the blond girl, letting out a puff of smoke.

The boy looked at her, and a half smile emerged on his lips. He stopped a meter and a half from them, adjusted the lens of his camera with his fingers, lifted it, and pointed it directly at the blond girl.

"What about you, Kelly?" He suddenly released while he held the camera in front of his face. "Aren't you too young?"

His finger pressed the camera button just when that girl's face was filled with stupefaction, and was just that expression what was captured in the photograph.

"What did you say?" She murmured nervously, barely a trace of her voice.

The boy took a step towards them and activated the camera's trigger again.

"Tell me, was going against the wishes and warnings of your parents worth it?" He said with a mocking tone, approaching her carefully, still taking pictures. The young blonde started to back scared, staggering in her high red heels. "Get away from your house and come alone up here, with nothing more than a childish desire to be an actress? Was your life really that bad in that little town in Iowa? How things turned out, was it better to have stayed with the buried dagger of _what would have happened if...?_ This _at least I tried_ allows you to sleep at night, while you have at your side the hot and sweaty body of a man more disgusting than the previous one?"

The blonde stepped back more and more nervous, panicked by every word that came from that boy's mouth. Irremediably she fell to the floor, but even then she didn't stop. She crawled back along the sidewalk with her miniskirt getting completely dirty until her back was against a wall. And when she was having nowhere else to run, she only had the option of raising her arms in front, and cover herself. Her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably, and the boy seemed more than happy to photograph that deplorable state in which she had fallen just by hearing the truth; her truth.

The other woman was slow to react because she did not understand what all that was about. However, seeing her friend on the ground trembling was enough to make her step forward to help.

"What's your problem, brat?! Leave her alone!" She shouted angrily, quickly approaching to the stranger. "And get that damn thing down...!"

She took him by his arm with the firm determination to knock his camera down, smash it into the pavement, stomps on it, and then do the same with his head if necessary. But she was unable to do any of those things because when her fingers pressed against the dark fabric of his sleeve, she stopped short; No, she was instead paralyzed, unable to move even a single muscle. Her throat closed, her fingers began to tremble, her eyes bulged, and some sweat began to cross her face. There was no word coming from her lips; just some nervous gasps.

The boy slowly pulled the camera away from his face and turning his head towards her. She only took a small look at those cold, penetrating blue eyes, only occupied that he looked at her for a moment, to make her retreat in fear as if she had seen the most horrible of the beasts face to face. That was not an ordinary fear: it was the worst sense of terror she had ever felt in her life, a terror she was not aware she could sense. Her back was stuck against a poster, and her hands clung to it as a support, because otherwise, she would have fallen.

The boy smiled, quite satisfied by her reaction, and still took the audacity to make a quick picture of her in that position.

"Wonderful," he murmured happily, and then began to review all the photographs he had taken, on the small digital screen of the camera. "Besides good models, you look like smart girls. Maybe you can help me with something. I am looking for a person who is supposed to live in this neighborhood." He paused, placed the lens cover, and looked at both of them, something more severe than before. "I think you know her in the streets as the Orphan."

* * *

She had read some time ago about people who looked at themselves in the mirror and felt that the face they were looking at was not theirs. It was a concept hard to understand unless one came to live it in the flesh. Most likely, those sensations that invaded her suddenly were not something as serious as that, but they allowed her to get an idea.

In recent years, she felt less and less than the person in that mirror was her. But, who else could it be? That eternal face was her. She understood that well. But it was precisely that perpetuity that made her feel that she was looking at a photograph, a drawing, a caricature ... something that did not really represent her. Especially when she put on make-up, and she did it frequently.

And she did not really need much: a little dust here and there, hide a couple of wrinkles and _Voilà_! It was the adorable, innocent, white and soft face of a ten-year-old girl, adorned with flirtatious freckles. Because that's what her customers expected. They didn´t go to that corner forgotten by God of the city to feel that they fuck a fortyish woman of short stature, that was what she really was. No, nothing like that. They wanted to imagine that they did it with their daughter, their little sister, their niece, their student, the girl who lives across the street... or let them know in whom that people thought exactly while they did it. But that didn't matter to her.

The only thing that really mattered was their money, the money she used to pay the rent for that small and nauseating hole in which she had ended, in addition to food, water... And of course, makeup and accessories; those definitely nobody gave them away.

After finishing with the first of them, who had decided to appear much earlier than usual because he had an _important appointment_ more night, she sat in the chair in front of her dressing table, to smoke a cigarette. Her black hair, slightly curly, was loose, falling on her shoulders. She pulled on only a thin white nightgown, which, due to her short stature, reached too far below her knees.

The subject was finishing arranging on the other side of the bed. The woman could see him through the reflection of the mirror, but she tried not to do that. In fact, she had her eyes crouched down on the surface of the dresser. That was precisely one of those days when she was disgusted to see that face in the mirror.

"How much is it going to be?" She heard the sturdy, gray-haired man in a two-piece gray suit, ask her. When she glanced at his reflection, she noticed that his tie was poorly arranged, but she was not interested in even pointing it out.

"The same as always," she replied indifferently, just after releasing a thick puff of smoke from her pink lips. "Leave it at the desk."

The woman looked at him through the mirror, noticing how he pulled a wad of bills from his bag, separated several and left them on the bureau as she said. What had he told her he worked for? Something in the government, surely. Or was she confusing him with another?

She hoped that was all and next he left without saying anything else. But, instead, he came up behind her, bouncing proudly.

"I've told you before, but I'll tell you again," he said with a lewd tone that was quite direct and not very subtle. He stopped then just behind the chair; she continued without looking directly at him. "A beautiful girl as you, shouldn't be doing these things." The man suddenly placed his thick and hairy hands on her bony shoulders, squeezing them a little between his fat fingers like sausages. "I could get you out of this place, you know? Give you a house... hot food... be your daddy full-time."

The caresses of that man became more and more suggestive as he spoke, moving from her shoulders to her arms, and then daring to venture towards her torso.

She looked at him in the mirror in silence. He looked like a stupid dog, euphoric to see his own face while he touched her that way. Another day she would have endured and let him continue; but that day, even though she was just beginning his busy day... she was not in the mood for that in the least.

In fact, she felt disgusted by his mere closeness, by his only smell.

She lowered her gaze, now contemplating a pair of scissors that landed just above the dressing table. How easy it would be to take them and stick them in one of those thick hands. She imagined for a moment that it burst like a balloon, although she knew that was not how it worked; but what a funny image that would be. For sure he would scream learned by pain and confusion. She would go back, and then she would throw herself at him. She would knock him to the bed, put herself on top of him, and begin to repeatedly nail the sharp tip of the scissors to his neck. First ten or fifteen times on one side, and when it became boring or felt that the metal no longer had opposition on that side, she would start doing it on the other.

Seeing his eyes wide open, looking at her pleadingly, would surely be enough to really turn her on properly, although at that point those eyes were just shuttered windows because behind them there would be nothing. And then, and only then, could she finally do with pleasure all the disgust things that he liked so much.

Yes, that would be fine... but she would not do that. Instead, with the hand that did not hold her cigarette, she took one of his little fingers and folded it back, also bringing it dangerously close to the breaking point, to force him to release her.

"I've had enough daddies," she said bitterly, and then pulled his hand to one side violently. "Now go away."

"Ok, ok, don't be angry," the man grumbled, rushing back to the door, rubbing his finger. She did not take her eyes off his reflection until she saw him go out the door of the room.

She remained seated, finishing her cigarette, and plunged a little while longer into the same thoughts of a while ago. Again, she no longer looked at the mirror, but at the surface of the dressing table. To her hair comb, to her makeup, her powder box, her lipstick, and her scissors... those scissors that she wanted so much to nail in the neck of that man, and so many more. Sometimes, they left it too easy. Some liked to be tied up and cover their eyes; they would not even see it coming. No, but it was better than if they saw, to contemplate their eyes... those eyes of despair and horror...

"Good place," she heard a strange voice behind her suddenly. "Very adorable."

She did not even turn around or look in the mirror; just listening to that voice put her entirely on alert. Without even thinking about it, she opened the left drawer of the dressing table, took from it a long dark revolver, considerably more prominent than her hand, stood up and turned so violently that her chair fell in motion. She raised both hands to the front, holding the gun without letting go of the cigarette, and pointed firmly at the intruder: a boy, with straight black hair, combed to the side, in a black suit, blue shirt, a camera to the neck and a sports bag on the shoulder. He was standing right in the doorway of the room, looking around with a curious look and a calm smile.

"How did you get in here?!" She shouted angrily, without any trace of false sweetness in her voice.

The boy seemed to downplay her demand or the fact that she was pointing a gun at him. He continued looking at the rest of the room while allowing himself to enter a couple more steps inside.

"If I told you that your _friend_ who has just left kept the door open, would you believe me?" He replied with a mocking tone, whose only response was the sound of the hammer of the weapon, getting into position. "I suppose not."

"Who the fuck are you?" The woman questioned again, a little calmer, but not without demand. "What are you doing here? What do you want?!"

"I understand the type of environment in which you work, dear; but that is not an excuse to use that vocabulary."

With a normal attitude, he approached the bed and allowed himself to leave his nag on it.

"Are you not listening to me, blunder head?!" The owner of the place yelled with even more force than before. "I'll give you ten seconds to get your ass out of here, or else..."

"Is this the way you treat a potential client?"

"Fuck you. I choose my clients, and I don't get into brats with more milk on their lips than hairs between their legs."

Although indeed, except for his age, he was the most handsome boy she had ever seen put a foot in that apartment. He, for his part, gave a loud laugh in response to her comment.

"That's good, I like it. You are ingenious, as well as beautiful."

The face of the girl did not lighten a bit. He could feel and read without a problem that the only reason why she had not shot him already, was because she was still thinking about all the implications of doing so. Beginning with the noise it would make, the attention it would cause, the cleanliness she would have to do; well, if she wouldn't have to flee from there right away. And that idea did not exactly convince him; in spite of everything, she liked where she lived.

Although perhaps there was another factor, perhaps unconscious and more hidden, which forced her not to do such a thing. The same fear that inspired all those on the street not to approach that guy, not to dare to take his camera or take his bag. A feeling that was saying her if she did, the gun might explode in her hands, or the bullet would end up not hitting him, bouncing off the wall, and piercing her forehead right through the middle. It was something that could, in fact, happen.

But whatever it was, the reasons that had led him there forced him to try to take this situation a little calmer. So, instead of remaining defensive and pedantic, the guy made a couple of steps back, and raised his hands in submission, to try to calm her down a bit. His face, however, remained peaceful.

"Let's start again, ok? My name is Damien, Damien Thorn."

That name created a slight, barely noticeable, intrigue reaction in his forced hostess.

"Thorn? Like Thorn Industries?"

"Yes, it is written the same way," he replied with a shrug. "And you are... Leena, right?"

The girl's eyes widened and her face, more than surprised, became furious; even her milky white face turned reddish in a second.

"How do you know that name?!" She screamed at him entirely heated, and quickly circled the bed and approached him threateningly, gun still in hand. "Who you are?! Who you are?!"

The distance between them was shortened so much that the tip of his cannon and his chest separated them only about half a meter.

"As I said, I'm a potential client," he repeated, without losing a single molecule of his almost disturbing tranquility, "but not the kind you think. No offense; I'm sure you're very good at what you do, but it's not those skills that made me look for you."

He put his hands in his pockets, and put all his weight on one foot, taking a much more relaxed posture.

"I need you to find two people for me."

"Do I have the face of help to missing persons?"

"No," he replied with a mocking tone." I think you have the face of someone who throughout her life has cultivated many special skills, which have allowed her to survive and hide. The face of someone who knows very well the dark side of many cities and corners of this country; and that even better, she knows how to move around them. And most important of all," he leaned toward her then, making his penetrating eyes stare at her, "the face of someone who when she stares into the abyss, holds its gaze..."

There was silence, absolute silence, the seconds after. They did not even blink.

Incoherent as it sounded, something in him made her feel... confidence, something she had not felt in the presence of anyone, much less of a man.

After a while, she cautiously lowered her gun.

"What exactly do you want?"

"I said it, I want you to find two people, and bring them to me. Two little girls, in fact."

The woman snorted in annoyance and headed towards her dresser again.

"So, you are another degenerate after all. They are becoming younger."

She left the handgun on the table and extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray, only to relight another almost immediately.

"It's not what you think," he said, accompanied by a small chuckle. With a confident step, he approached her. "They are two extraordinary people, just like you. You know what kind of _extraordinary_ I mean, right?"

"Not even the most little idea."

She lifted the chair and sat down on it again. After that, she extended her arm to throw some ashes in the ashtray. But, just then, the stranger guy rushed his hand forward, took the same scissors that had fascinated her a few moments ago, and in the blink of an eye, he stuck them in her hand, making it pass through his palm and fit into the table's wood.

"Ah!" The woman cried, full of pain and confusion.

Bursts of blood came from the wound when he immediately after removed the improvised weapon from her skin, staining the entire dressing table. Before she could take her gun back, or at least hold her injured hand to press it, the boy grabbed her first from her wrist, and pushed the palm of her hand against the mirror, causing her blood to stain it, and begin to drip through it. With his other hand, the boy held her chin tightly, forcing her to stare straight ahead, toward her own reflection, the very one she had no desire to look at.

"Of course you know, Leena," he murmured in her ear gravely. "You know very well that you should be dead right now. Your body should be rotting under the frozen water of that lake where you were thrown, and where you were considered finished. But instead, you are here, satisfying the low and forbidden desires of the old, sick and horrible men, in exchange for a few dollars. _How is this possible?_ I bet you've asked yourself often."

While both were contemplating together in the same direction, they could see how that vertical wound that was drawn on her hand, began to close slowly. The blood stopped flowing, and in the blink of an eye her skin was again intact, as white and smooth as an instant before the stabbing ... or even more.

Damien smiled, amazed by such a show.

"It's funny how any wound you get now is cured right away." He then turned her head to the side, leaving the right side of her neck exposed; or, more specifically, the scars of past wounds that ran all around his neck. "But these scars that you got escaping from that Mental Asylum will forever mark your skin, as a horrible reminder. I bet that not all your clients find them so attractive."

Any trace of fear or anger that arose in the woman after that treacherous attack had vanished as the strange visitor spoke. All this had been far outweighed by the enormous confusion that caused her to hear everything he said, and the incredible accuracy of the data.

He not only knew her name: he knew absolutely everything about her. And for the first time in a long, long time, she felt entirely weak, naked, and under the mercy of another person. Impotent, unable to do anything beyond listening and let him do what he wanted. And the worst thing is that he was a simple teenager, one who was barely about to become an adult.

It was a feeling that overwhelmed her and twisted her stomach. However, at the same time, and although it seemed impossible to understand... it caused her arousal as intense as she had not felt in years; so much that she felt that her whole body was tingling, and not because of the pain of his recent wound, already cured at that moment.

Who was that guy really? And more importantly...

"How do you know all that?" She moaned with some weakness, because of the immense amount of emotions that ran through her body. She felt her nose impregnated with the sweet scent of his cologne; nothing to do with the rotten and unpleasant smell of the other bastard who had just left. "How did you find me? Are you a cop?"

"Of course not," he whispered softly in her ear. He still held her, both his wrist and his chin. "I'm not even old enough to enlist. But I know a lot more about you than you think; much more. For example, I know that night someone, or something, took you out of those cold waters, made the air return to your lungs, and your wounds were closed. And, do you think he did it so that you would spend the rest of your life opening leg and mouth to sick perverts in a dirty apartment like this? Do you think this is the only thing for which you are still alive? You are much better than that, I know it. But, do you know?

Only then he released her completely, and he slowly moved away from her. The girl still left her hand against the mirror for a few moments, and then let it slip through it, leaving a trail with the blood still left in her palm.

Shy, she turned to see him over her shoulder. He was already relatively far from her, leaning against one of the bunk beds, with his arms crossed; he was staring at her with enough intensity.

Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man who had gone to that place in the almost eight years she had been living there... pity he was an impertinent child.

"Do you know what happened that night?" She murmured, little by little more recovered. "Do you know why I'm still alive?"

Damien smiled once more.

"Make this assignment for me, and I assure you that you will answer that question and more."

He nodded toward the bag he had placed on the bed. The woman looked at it, and then stood up and approached with the same caution she would have if she were approaching an active bomb.

"There you will find all the information I've gathered from both girls I told you about," the boy informed a moment before she opened the bag. "It's not much, but I think it will be enough. In addition to a little advance payment for your expenses."

When she opened the bag, inside it were two files, one with a brown folder, and another with a blue folder; both full of papers. But more importantly, under both, there were bundles and bundles of bills; of twenty, fifty and one hundred. The bag was practically full, and it was impossible to guess how much money there was really there. But, reaching a certain amount, of which she was sure that it exceeded, it hardly mattered a few dollars less or a few dollars more.

Was that a _little_ advance payment?

She put the money aside for a few moments and concentrated on the files. First, she checked the brown one. When she opened it, the first thing she found was a newspaper clipping, apparently from Portland. It was the front-page, and it read in big black letters:

 _MAD PARENTS  
_ _COUPLE TRIES TO COOK HER OWN DAUGHTER IN THE OVEN_

She arched her eyebrow, intrigued. A pretty yellow press title. But, if in fact, they did what it said there, it would be difficult not to sound yellowish whatever the title was.

"Nice," she exclaimed sarcastically. "I guess it was not because she failed algebra."

She suspected that the daughter was one of the _two little girls_ he wanted her to find. She lowered the file, and her attention focused on the boy on the other side of the bed.

"And what is special about her?"

"You will know when you find her, and the other one."

"And, what should I do if I find them?"

"Bring me to both. Healthy and safe, please."

"If you have so much money and interest, why don't you do it yourself? This newspaper is from Portland, so at least you know where one is. If you don't want to do it yourself, you could hire any private detective, mercenary, or whatever. Why are you asking me?"

Damien laughed in a somewhat exaggerated way, which seemed to try to demonstrate more the absurdity of the question, than the humor that caused him.

"You haven't understood anything yet, right? Do not worry, you'll find out." He started at that moment to walk to the door, with the same calmness with which he had entered. "As I promised, find both girls, and you'll discover more about yourself than you think."

He kept advancing and was practically at the exit when he heard her speak again.

"Esther," she murmured slowly, but hard enough for him to hear. "Call me Esther. Leena Klammer died a long, long time ago."

Damien looked at her, shrugged and continued on his way.

"Esther, then."

He left, and she stayed.

Esther sat on the bed, trying to digest what had happened, or at least what she understood of what had happened. She looked again at the contents of the bag; she had never seen so much money gathered at one point. She imagined everything she could do with it. Buy a false identity, pay someone to take her out of the country, maybe go to a southern country. Perhaps she could get another family to adopt her as their daughter, and do things right that time... at least as long as possible.

But there was another side to that plan. If that guy had left her such a large amount of money, it was surely nothing for him compared to all he had. And with resources like those, it would not take much time to find her; in fact, she did not understand how he had found her in the first place. And her name? And her story? How had he found out about all this?

She did not like games like that, especially when she felt she had all the disadvantages and someone else was controlling the game.

She took out the other file, the blue one, to review it. There were also newspaper clippings on it, but they were talking about an incident on an island in Washington, about horses that had jumped into the sea for no reason. The name of the ranch was "Morgan."

After digging a little deeper among all the papers in the file, she came up with a name, possibly the name of the second girl she supposed to look for: Samara Morgan.

 **END OF CHAPTER 06**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _— **Damien Thorn** is based mainly on the same character as the movie: **The Omen (2006)** , which is, in turn, a remake of the film of the same title from **1976**. Although in terms of continuity I will take more the facts and times from **2006 film** , for his story, and some additional details of the character, will also be taken from the other movies **Damien: Omen II (1978)** and **Omen III: The Final Conflict (1981)** , and the television series **Damien (2016)**. Concerning his personality and powers, they will be based in part on those mentioned above, but also on a more personal interpretation._

 _— **Leena Klammer** , aka **Esther** , is based entirely on the antagonistic character of the film **Orphan (2009)** , standing **eight years after** the events of that film. What happened in this will be fully respected, but some adjustments will be made to its end that will be explained more clearly later._

 _I must admit that this chapter took me a bit out of my comfort zone, because of the themes touched and the language. It is not the style of things that I usually write, but the characters that I have decided to use so deserve it, I think. It is likely that this will be repeated often from now on so I will give everything to do it well._


	7. 07 My best try

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 07.  
** **My best try**

Matilda had been in Oregon for a week when the sky dawned clear for the first time. That day she got up relatively early. The sun was just rising, and the view of the blue sky was slowly lighting up; it was gorgeous. While driving to the hospital, an idea came up for that day's session.

After Dr. Scott's usual initial denials, which were not only normal but their absence would surprise her, he allowed her to take Samara out to the hospital courtyard. There would be no other people in those moments out there so they could be alone; Dr. Scott took the obligation of emphasizing that this included any other doctor or nurse who could come to her rescue if something went wrong, but she still decided to take the risk.

At half-past seven, Matilda and Samara went out to the patio together. It seemed as if the sun had not touched Samara's little face in weeks, and not just because of the pale tone of her face had taken. The little girl looked in all directions, very cautiously as they advanced from the door on the concrete path surrounded by benches and trees. Her actions showed interest, but her eyes kept stoic.

Between her fingers, Samara was carrying Nancy, the doll she had asked to bring from her home. It was an old-fashioned Barbie or at least some brand that tried to resemble her, with long straight black hair. The doll wore a short green dress with bare shoulders. As she had agreed with the good Doctor in charge, Matilda gave it to her every time they met and took it with her every time she left. The funny thing was that Samara never played with it or anything like that. Usually, she just held her against her or tightly between her hands. Matilda felt that the mere proximity of that toy, surely made her feel a little better in some way; closer to home, perhaps?

"What are we doing out here?" The girl asked, somewhat confused, but evidently not disappointed by the change of scenario.

Matilda smiled.

"The sun finally came out, so I thought you'd like a different air." Samara did not answer, but she sensed that it was a silent affirmation. "Also, I want us to try something new."

Matilda led Samara to one of the benches on the side of the road, but they did not sit on it. Instead, the psychiatrist extended her hand to the front, toward the mountains in the distance.

"Normally, you draw thoughts that you only see in your head. But, have you tried to capture something that you see in the real world? For example, look at that view."

Samara looked in the direction in which she pointed. The sun was rising from behind the mountains, and they could see its circumference without a problem because it still did not come with all its light.

"Why don't you try to look at it a few seconds, memorize it, and capture that image on paper?"

Samara looked at her doubtfully, but she went on.

"Look at those colors, those shapes. Are not they beautiful?"

"Yes, they are," she murmured slowly.

"So, what do you say? Would you like to try it?"

Samara simply shrugged, and again it seemed to be her silent way of saying _yes_.

They were a couple of seconds watching that natural spectacle. In all that time, neither said anything or did anything beyond looking at the horizon. Samara's expression was just as peaceful as ever, so it was impossible for Matilda to know if she enjoyed it or not.

"Well, now let's turn around."

Matilda turned around, and now she sat on the bench so that she had her back to the mountains. She touched the wooden surface beside her with one hand, indicating with that little act that she should sit down. Samara did so, although everything on her face showed that she was still not very sure of the situation. What should that doubt be?

Matilda took out of her bag the drawing block they had been using during the sessions; in it were already embodied several images, all created by Samara. She opened the block on a blank page and placed it carefully on the girl's legs.

"Try to imagine in your mind that landscape you saw, and sign it here. Do you think you can do it?"

Samara stared at the blank paper in her hands. She ran his fingers slowly over it, barely brushing the surface with the tips of his fingers. After a few seconds, she placed the whole palm on the bottom of the paper, and almost immediately a picture slowly formed, with black and dark branches extending from her fingers, to grow and cover the white space. Like the previous times, it seemed as if those lines were burned on paper, instead of drawing.

The image was captured relatively quickly, and the result was precisely the landscape behind them. However, it was not wholly the same. As soon as Matilda saw it, a somewhat oppressive sensation invaded her chest. While the actual landscape looked warm, friendly and colorful, the image on the paper was dark and cold. The darkness seemed to cover the sky, dimming the sunlight.

"Very well, you did it very well," Matilda exclaimed, placing a hand on her shoulder in approval. She not to receive any negative reaction from the child to that little contact, and it pleased her. "But, doesn't it send a different feeling that the real one? Don't you think it looks a little...?"

"Sad?" Samara interrupted suddenly, still contemplating the image on the paper. "Scary? As dead?" She stopped for a second. "Everything always ends up being that way, even if I don't want to."

It was not clear if her words were conveyed of frustration or anguish, but definitely, the result had affected her. Was that what bothered her at first? Did she know it would end like this?"

"Don't worry about that? Why do not you try again?"

Samara stood up and took another look at the landscape for a long time. The sun was already more lived and could not hold much look, but still tried. She sat down again when she considered it prudent, and repeated the same act from a few moments ago: she changed pages to a blank one, ran her fingers through the paper, placed her hand on the bottom, and tried to capture the image of the landscape.

The result, however, ended up being quite similar to the previous one.

Matilda took the notebook and reviewed it in more detail. What she had said a few moments ago was right: all the images she created, both on radiographs and on paper, transmit a very uncomfortable feeling, even frightening sometimes. Maybe it was not bad at all; perhaps it was what her ability was capable of doing, and people like her perceived it with a dark feeling inspired merely by their own emotions. But even if it were like that, it was difficult to look at those images and not to provoke a deep sense of uneasiness and sadness.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind. If that was how she felt just by seeing an image on paper... What was it that Mrs. Morgan felt? What was it that Samara had made her see? And... What had she made her biological mother see so that she wanted to drown her?

"Are you angry with me?" She heard that Samara suddenly asked, taking her by surprise.

"No, of course not," she said quickly with a broad smile. "You did very well, Samara. Maybe we can try another..."

"Then, who are you upset with?" She interrupted abruptly, almost cutting.

Matilda hesitated, surprised by this sudden outburst.

"Why do you think I'm upset?"

"Because I can feel it. I feel something bothering you."

Samara looked at her with intensity in her eyes. She almost always had an intense look, but on that occasion it was different; it seemed almost inquisitive as if she was accusing her of something.

"You see it? In my mind?" Samara did not answer, although she turned her gaze away quickly as if she was feeling ashamed. "Did you read something in my mind, Samara?"

"Not completely," she whispered slowly, head bowed; her hair fell over her face, covering it almost completely. "They are always more like ... forebodings."

"I get it. And do you have those forebodings often?"

"Not that much…"

The extent of her telepathic ability, if indeed that was it, had not been adequately studied by Dr. Scott and the rest of his team, and Matilda had not wanted to go deep into it; not yet, at least.

These "forebodings" as she described them, were the smallest scale they had detected in people who shine. Usually, they were just sensations that told the person whether or not to do something, whether or not to trust someone, etc. But in Samara's case, Matilda was sure it was more profound than that. These feelings and sensations could be more precise than they thought.

"Did you see anything about me?" Matilda asked directly, but Samara again did not answer. "Is there something you want to ask me? You know you can tell me anything."

Matilda hoped she was not stepping on dangerous ground. After all, she had relevant information in her mind that she had not shared with her current patient; about being adopted, and the actual whereabouts of her biological mother, as well as the rugged story of how it ended up in adoption. If Samara had sensed something of it, she might be getting into a situation where she did not want to be. However, on the other hand, if she knew or had at least sensed it, either in her or in her own parents, it would not do anything good for their relationship to hide or deny it.

Matilda was determined to speak the truth if that was what she wanted to ask. However, what Samara wanted, in fact, had nothing to do with that suspicion. In fact, But, Matilda was not at all ready for that question anyway...

"Who is Carrie?" Blew out the little one, making Matilda startle so much, that she narrowly jumped from her seat.

The psychiatrist was paralyzed, unable to react immediately; even his breathing had been cut off, but she was not aware of it until she realized that was short of breath in her lungs.

When she did not receive an answer, Samara turned slowly towards her, and again looked at her with the same intensity as before.

"Excuse?" The doctor said, unable to reflect security. She had listened very well to her question, but she clung to an almost ridiculous longing that it had been something else.

And indeed, it was not like that.

"You've thought that name very hard a couple of times since we met," Samara explained. "It's like a loud scream in my ears. Who is she?"

Matilda inhaled and exhaled hard through her nose.

Was she really asking about... that? Why? Why about that subject? Why right at that moment? Of all things, secrets, undesirable and horrible moments that haunted her mind... why that?

"It's not something I think we should talk about right now. Is better…"

"Why don't you want to tell me about it?" Samara said with something more aggressive.

"It's not that I don't want to, Samara. It is just that…"

Matilda's words locked. She was so unprepared to answer that, and she really did not have a convincing excuse beyond the obvious one: that in fact, she did not want to do it... which was not very far from reality.

Samara seemed bothered by her hesitation.

"Tell me who she is," the kid exclaimed demandingly. "Or I will not want to talk to you anymore."

Matilda was startled; she easily sensed all the threat latent in those words. She was not sure how serious it was, but she could not let an incident like that break all the good relationship she had achieved with her up to that point.

But... talk about that? What utility or benefit could it bring? Most certainly, none. Talking about that could not bring anything good, neither to her nor to the girl.

Should she impose her authority? She was not sure how Samara would react to such a confrontation. Even at that moment, she already looked quite defensive. Her expression had taken on that almost terrifying face she had the first night they met. Matilda had a hard time admitting it, but she really began to feel intimidated by her... almost scared. Was that what Dr. Scott and his assistants saw? Was that what her parents saw?

For the first time, she felt real the warning, almost threatening, that John told her that there would not be any nurse or doctor to help her if she took care of herself.

Matilda returned to breathe deeply, closed the sketchbook and placed it on her legs.

"Ok…"

She looked forward. The sun had almost entirely come out behind them, but in front, there were still some blue and purple tones of the night. She crossed her legs, and sat up straight; Samara stared at her expectantly.

"Carrie... she was also a special girl," Matilda murmured very cautiously in her voice. "She also shone, like us. But her abilities manifested in her only until she was somewhat older than you. It is not usual, but it happens. Usually, the Shining shows in children at a young age, and from there it develops little by little. But in her case, it suddenly appeared at seventeen, without any warning, and with enough force. And when it occurs like that, it can bring several problems."

"Why?"

"Well, as you will soon know, adolescence is a tough stage for everyone. It is full of confusions and fears, even without having to live with the Shining."

She paused and held her breath a little as if talking about it caused her some kind of pain.

"But Carrie's case was a lot more serious, because of her family situation and with her classmates. She didn't have an easy life, nor close to that. And it affected her too much. That's why I wanted to help her, just like I want to help you right now."

"And you did it?" Samara asked with a sharp tone. "Could you help her?"

In Samara's expression was a longing to know. She seemed genuinely eager to hear her response, and that really was the truth. She really seemed to want to know if Matilda had been able to do it; if she had been able to do the same thing she wanted to do with her.

But say that... would have been a lie.

"I did my best try," was all Matilda managed to say, and she regretted almost immediately after.

Samara watched her intently in silence. All that longing had vanished abruptly, and now there was only... nothing, absolutely nothing.

"But you failed," Samara concluded with an almost indifferent tone. "You failed, right? You couldn't help her." Her tone was so cold that it stuck hard into Matilda's chest. "Are you going to fail with me? Will you leave me too?"

Matilda was frozen by those words.

"No... Of course, I won't!" she answered, again, unable to reflect the security she wanted, and Samara noticed it.

The girl lowered her eyes again contemplating her doll in her lap. After a few seconds, she took the toy and placed it on the bench between Matilda and herself.

"I don't think I'm in the mood to talk to you today," she said with an average voice, and then she stood up without looking at her. "I want to go to my room right now."

Matilda hesitated a moment but quickly chose to do what she said. The truth is that she felt the same way; she did not want to continue talking to her at that time either. She couldn´t do something to clarify that situation at that moment.

"Yes... sure," Matilda answered. "I'll come back later if you want us to talk."

Samara did not answer her, and did not she say anything all the way into the hospital.

* * *

After leaving Samara with the nurses, Matilda went straight to her car, before she met Dr. Scott and he dared to question her. Although it was only to delay the inevitable; sooner or later he was going to have to find out it, anyway.

She walked with such haste through the parking lot that on a couple of occasions her heels went badly, and she almost fell. When she was already on the side of the vehicle, she looked desperately for the keys in the contents of her bag. When she took them out, however, the keys fell off, remaining between their feet. And to top it all off, when she bent down to pick them up, her open bag fell too, and much of its contents spread out under the car.

Matilda let out a small muffled curse, and as she collected all her things, she released several more.

In the end, she finally managed to get into the car, but not before flogging the door with strength; just a moment later she remembered that the vehicle was rented. She sat in the driver's seat but did not start the engine; not yet. Instead, she stood still, with her hands clinging to the steering wheel, and her eyes on the front, watching... nothing, really.

 _You have to be very clear this girl is not Carrie White_ , Eleven had told her that night. It had been her fault, she had put that idea in her head, and that was why Samara had perceived it and touched on that subject. Although, Samara said she had felt it since they met. Did she think about it? Did she even think that they both look a lot like without her noticing?

 _Are you going to fail with me? Will you leave me too?_

Matilda pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, and there she stayed. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and tried to calm down. It was not the first difficult situation she faced in that job, and could not keep letting the Carrie White affair affect her that way. She had to regain her composure and think about the best way to act now.

 _You must not regret this_ , Eleven had said to her that afternoon, sitting next to each other. _There was nothing you could do in such a short time to prevent it._

But was it really like that? Was there really nothing she could have done...?

Suddenly, her phone started ringing, abruptly pulling her out of her deep thoughts, and causing her to startle scared. Matilda quickly began to rummage through his purse again, a little desperate. She took out almost everything she had there before finally finding the phone and answering it immediately, without even taking the time to see the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Matilda? Matilda Honey?" A male voice spoke on the other side of the line.

"Yes, it's me," she answered, sharper and moody than she would have liked, but she did not care. "Who is?"

"Hello, I'm Doug Ames, from the Doctorate."

"Excuse me, who?" She exclaimed confused. A small giggle was heard from the other side.

"I'm not surprised you don't remember me. After all, you were the young girl of just over twenty, surrounded by pure olds of almost thirty or more..."

"No, no, I am sorry," she quickly hurried to intervene.

She took a second, took a deep breath and tried to lighten her mind a little. She retreated until her doctorate years at Yale and attempted to give a face to the name he just gave her.

Doug Ames...

Doug Ames...

Doug Ames...

No, no matter how hard she tried, she could not identify who it was. She had several candidates in mind that could fit, but none stood out more than another. What that faceless voice had said, was entirely accurate. That couple of years at Yale, she had spent practically in herself and in her work, and little or no attention had been given to those around her.

Even so, she knew that if she tried hard enough, she could clearly remember who that person was, but not for the moment. Her mind was too wrapped up in what had just happened that in fact, that she had no desire to try harder than necessary.

"Doug, yes, I remember you," she exclaimed with good spirit and trying to sound sincere. "I'm sorry, I'm... somewhat distracted."

And then she smiled, as a mere reflection although she knew very well that Doug Ames could not see her. She leaned her elbow against the steering wheel, and with her free hand rubbed her face a bit with. She hoped he was not calling to ask for a date or something like that; it was what the least she needed at that time.

"Do not worry," exclaimed the supposed Doug, rather calmly. "Professor Armstrong gave me your number, I hope it doesn't bother you."

Professor Armstrong, which was a name she remembered. Child Psychiatrist and Yale Professor. An older man, but very bright, intelligent, and a fantastic person. And if that was not enough, he also shone. Only a little; he was one of those people with that bit of trace of Shining that allowed him to feel and perceive things, connect with people, and have excellent instincts.

They had become very friendly during the Doctorate, although he had not spoken to her in a couple of years... similar to how she had done with Cody. It surprised her for a second to realize how such good friendships she had had a long time ago, unconsciously she had put them aside over the years. Out of some exchange of reactions on Facebook, she had not had contact with any of her old friends from Arcadia. Even if she thought about it more closely, she had been doing a little aside even to her own adoptive mother, until only frequenting her once or twice a year.

Things like these happen throughout life, she supposed.

"No, of course, it's okay. How have you been?"

"Very well, I suppose. I currently work in Portland, as a Child Psychologist for the Department of Family Affairs."

 _Portland?_ It briefly crossed her mind; impossible that it was a coincidence.

"That sounds excellent."

"Yes, most of the time it's nice to help children with problems at home..." He made a long and strange pause, which gave Matilda a lousy feeling. She felt a great _but_ on the way, and so it was. "But at this moment, I have a somewhat complicated case. This is about a girl, whom her parents tried to burn alive in her oven."

"Oh my God," the brunette said, truly frightened, more by the directness of the comment than by the comment itself.

"Maybe you heard about the case in newspapers or social networks. There was much echo because of the horrible act."

No, she had not really read anything about it, although she was not very likely to read that kind of news either. They usually arrived without her wanting it, as at that precise moment.

"Is the girl okay now?"

"If I'm honest..." Another strange pause. "I'm not sure."

There was something strange about Doug's tone that Matilda only realized until then. It transmitted certain nervousness that tried to hide behind amiability and good humor that in the end, ended up feeling a little false. If Matilda had to guess, she would say that the subject he was talking about caused him so much of discomfort, but also a particular discomfort type; of those that only something that reaches you to the core could provoke... like talking about Carrie White, in her case.

Doug went on, going straight to what he wanted to say.

"Listen, I've been treating children who are abused, mistreated, broken inside for a few years. But there's something in this girl, something that, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, scares me a little."

"Something like that?" Asked intrigued.

"It's just a theory, but I think it could be a case of APD."

Matilda jumped in her seat. APD, in other words, Antisocial Personality Disorder. Or in a more familiar term used by people... sociopathy.

"That is a severe diagnosis that can't be taken lightly."

"I know, and the truth is at this moment I don't have enough bases to assure it. It is more a sensation, quite uncomfortable. I had a conversation with her last night, and there was something in her gaze and her words ... I had never seen such coldness, but at the same time aggressiveness, in a person, much less in a child. But I admit that I don't have much experience in that field to make a reliable diagnosis. That's why I contacted Professor Armstrong to give me his opinion. After telling him all this, he said to me that you were in Oregon right now, and he strongly recommended I talk to you and ask for your help."

Matilda thought for a few seconds. Dr. Armstrong was one of the best child psychiatrists on the West Coast, and one of his specialties was precisely sociopathy in children. She also was actively working on that topic for her theses, with Armstrong's guidance, but she was still far from being an expert like him.

Why had Dr. Armstrong suggested that he should talk to her about it? Did he really feel that it was something she could take care of? Maybe he wanted her to look at the child and then pass him her observations, and then decide if it was worth or not to travel from New Haven to there. He was already an old man, after all; he could not, and should not, get on a plane at the first opportunity without there being a good reason.

However, how did he know she was in Oregon exactly? His Shining was enough to know where she was but not to know if this case was worth or not worth the trip? As it was, in other circumstances she would have been happy to do that favor to her former teacher, but she would have preferred that he ask for it himself, and not that she had to be contacted by someone who still could not give him a face. Besides that, he did it at the worst possible time.

Matilda sighed a little tired. She really did not have the head to continue that conversation, so she tried to cut it in the best way.

"Actually, I'm staying in Salem right now, and I'd love to help you, Doug. But I am here because I am attending to my own complicated case, and I am afraid that it has become more complicated just today. Why don't you send me the information you can about this girl and I will check it as soon as I have a chance?"

"I..." Matilda felt a considerable uncertainty in his voice. "Yeah, sure.

But I really would like, if possible, that you see her yourself and could give me your observations, since the information I can provide you I don't think it will transmit the whole situation."

And right here was then Matilda had one of those occasional flashes that illuminated her head, with much more strength and clarity to be a simple feeling. As soon as Doug spoke those words, a sudden thought ran through her: there was something else there.

What if Dr. Armstrong had recommended talking to her, not because of her theses about the child sociopathy... but because of her true specialty? He knew, at least in part, what Matilda was capable of, and the work she did for the Foundation. Perhaps before knowing her, he had never heard about the Shining or was fully aware that he possessed a little of it, it did not take him long to understand it as soon as it was time. What if Dr. Armstrong had sensed that this case had something more focused on that other branch? Perhaps he had had a feeling quite similar to what she was having at that moment.

"Is there anything else I should know?" The psychiatrist asked in a direct tone. "Something else, out of the ordinary do you want to tell me about this case?"

She heard Doug babble a little on the other side of the line, and hesitate about speaking or not. That single reaction told her immediately that, indeed, there was something he had not mentioned yet.

"This is something unofficial," he said after a while, whispering low as if he afraid that someone else would hear him. "I shouldn't talk about this, and maybe it's nothing. But an incident happened only a few days ago. Another boy, from the same group in which I treated this girl, during the night, and for no apparent reason, murdered his parents." Again, the words so sudden took Matilda off guard. "And the level of violence that he applied, hitting them with a stick until... That was not present in him before, I would have seen it in some way. And I'm not saying that girl was involved, but the social worker who is in charge of her is a good friend, and I think she also senses something strange after that happened."

"Something strange besides a possible APD?"

"I don't know. But Dr. Armstrong was sure that your previous experience with similar cases could give me some light. Although he didn't tell me what exactly you are doing right now. Are you treating children with severe behavioral disorders like this?"

 _Not exactly_ , it flashed through her head.

The description he had just given her was not enough to determine if there was anything related to the Shining involved in all this. However, it was enough to suppose that perhaps it was a case more for the Eleven Foundation than for the Portland Department of Family Affairs.

But it came at an awful time. Samara's case really consumed her too much energy, and she had not even been able to talk to Mrs. Morgan, or seriously considered the possibility of contacting the biological mother if she was still alive. And to finish, that incident that had just happened.

 _Are you going to fail with me? Will you leave me too?_

Those words were still echoing in her head; the last vivid picture she had of Carrie White was also doing it.

She could not do much, not in those moments. She could ask Cody to review it, but if in addition to being a shining girl, it was a girl with APD, it was likely that he did not have enough tools to deal with it. Maybe the best thing was to contact Eleven and inform her about what happened, and so she could send someone else; perhaps that other person with more experience than she spoke to. But, she could only do it if she had more information, and, after it, she could decide which the right path was.

"Send me the information, and I promise to check it as soon as I can, okay?" She repeated, trying to be less blunt, but felt she had not quite achieved it.

"Yes, it's okay," Doug murmured, and Matilda could feel the disappointment in his voice without a problem. "Thank you, and I hope you do well with your complicated case."

"I hope so too. See you soon if everything goes well."

She passed him her email address, and they cut just after that. Matilda would wait to receive the mail so she could calmly review what it was about. However, such mail would never arrive, because it would not reach to be sent.

 **END OF CHAPTER 07**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _— **Carrie White** , who was mentioned in this chapter and in some of the previous ones, is a character belonging to **Stephen King** 's novel **Carrie** , and protagonist of three films with the same name, from **1976** , **2002** and **2013**. Her participation in the story and the details of her position in time will be given in later chapters._

 _— **Doug Ames** , who phones Matilda, is a main character in the movie **Case 39** of **2009**. Likewise, how this film will influence this story and its position in time, will be detailed later._


	8. 08 A horrible feeling

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 08.  
** **A horrible feeling**

Be a homicide detective was always an obvious goal for Cole Sear. That was, after all, the perfect way in which he could fulfill the purpose that had led him to join the police force from the start. This achievement reached him relatively quickly, becoming one of the youngest elements to get it. A lot of it was thanks to his hard work, of course; but it would be quite stubborn of him to pretend that it was not also due to his _unique abilities_ which gave him an advantage over other competitors.

If he had learned anything during those years he was leading, not only as a homicide detective but as part of the Philadelphia Police Department itself, it is that almost all criminals, not to mention people in general, had the instinct to run away ; or, failing that, attack at the first sign of danger. This behavior was very characteristic of animals; the one that was not so was the desire to attack, torture, and murder their peers for no reason, beyond wanting to do so, or a selfish and twisted search for pleasure and emotion.

Strangely, he had realized that those with this behavior were, in fact, less likely to flee. As he saw it, the violent and ruthless killers, even within their twisted way of seeing the world, were smart enough to understand that what they did was wrong; for other people, not for themselves. And although several of them could not fully digest all the implications of it, they used to accept with remarkable tranquility the fact that they were discovered and even celebrated about it.

Andrew Stuart, the son of a bitch who was chasing on foot at the time in the center, was not one of them. This coward, as soon as he understood why two officers had shown up at his appliance store looking specifically for him, threw a shelf to them and ran out terrified by the boarding area. Cole's partner, Tommy, went to the car, while Cole decided to run after the suspect. Although of course, to call him _suspect_ for Cole was a mere formality; he already knew that he was guilty, and enough.

It was a little before 6 pm; the sidewalks were somewhat crowded, as several people had recently left their jobs. To Andrew, this seemed to matter very little to him, as did not matter to him the life of the innocent women who trusted him when they got into his vehicle during the dawns, in search of somebody that took them safely to home. He pushed everyone without the slightest hesitation to break through, even knocking them to the ground if necessary. A part of Cole wanted to behave himself that way, as long as he could reach that bastard as soon as possible. But, for better or for worse, he was a law enforcement officer, so he just went as far as he could, while announcing himself shouting: _"Police! Off to the side!"_ That seemed to be enough most of the time for people to stand aside, between surprised and frightened.

He would not let him escape in any way. Not after everything he had done, and everything he had to pay for. Cole would catch him, and put him in the darkest and most humid cell he could find, but not before beating him as God commands.

Andrew turned out to have enough stamina and condition, but Cole also had it. It took him three blocks, but he finally managed to tack and throw Andrew to the ground. Both rolled; Andrew hit his forehead against the sidewalk, and it opened in a long wound. Still stunned with his forehead bleeding, he got back to his feet, and without thinking, he threw a punch at Cole. The detective dodged him by a few millimeters, but Andrew kept trying.

And there was the second common behavior: attack in a desperate way, fed by anger.

People surrounded them, but all were limited to watching the show. During the first punches, Cole only covered or dodged, but just when he saw the opportunity, he hit a straight right on his jaw, which made Andrew stumble back awkwardly. Cole could have taken out his gun and forced him with that threat to throw himself to the ground, but he did not do that. He felt a lot of satisfaction, more than he would admit, in being able to advance that beating he had thought of right now and with his fists.

Andrew was not as helpless as he looked. In their exchange of punches, he managed to give Cole a pair, of which the second almost knocked him down, but he remained standing.

Cole could see out of the corner of his eye how Tommy arrived and parked his beige Cadillac on one side of the sidewalk. Then he got off, with his gun in hand, but remained in that place, doubtful whether to intervene or not.

"Do you want help, friend?"

"No, thanks," Cole said, just before ducking to avoid an Andrew hook. "I have everything under control."

At first glance, it did not seem that this statement was right, but in the end, the detective managed to shoot the suspect behind a strong hook to the face, which made him turn on himself, fall flat on the floor, and stay there. Once there, Cole stood over him and placed the handcuffs on him, perhaps applying a little more force than required.

"Andrew Stuart," he began with a vengeance as he handcuffed him, "you're under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Snyder, and five other women whom I will name you shortly, I promise."

He lifted him and then pulled him violently towards the car.

"This is stupid!" Andrew exclaimed furiously; his face bloodied and bruised. "Based on what you are doing it?"

"Based on what?" Murmured Cole, apparently furious at the mere idea that he questioned such a thing. "How about six corpses buried in the same corner of the forest, all with enough of your DNA to send you to a death sentence individually?"

Andrew's expression filled with astonishment and amazement suddenly, trying to look at his captor over his shoulder as his firm grip allowed him.

"That, without mention the word of a witness" the detective added sharply, already being right next to the car.

"Witness?" Andrew exclaimed as if he did not know the meaning of that word. "What witness?"

"Rebecca Snyder, asshole."

"What?"

Before giving him enough time even to digest that strange response, the officer placed his hand on his head and lowered it suddenly intending to put him in the backseat. However, in the process he smashed his forehead against the top frame of the door, causing him to become even more disoriented than he already was.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did it hurt? My carelessness."

Cole pushed it into the car almost pushing it, and slammed the door hard behind him. The people, by then, had already begun to retire.

"Well done, Sear," Tommy said, almost scolding. "Do you think that enough time has passed since your last slap of ears for police abuse?"

"You saw it yourself, he fought it hard," Cole said, shrugging nonchalantly. "You will back me up, will not you?"

He added a wink of complicity behind his words, to which the other cop quietly sighed.

"While I can, my friend."

Tommy was ten years older than him, with a mustache of a somewhat old—fashioned style. In theory, he was supposed to be his senior, in charge of teaching him and taking care that he did everything according to the rules and procedure. In practice, Tommy turned out to be quite condescending with it. Although he was not so old, he seemed to share many of the old guard's thoughts, in which it was considered understandable, and even advisable, that they should treat the criminals as necessary. The difference between Cole and him is that Tommy most of the time he only thought about it, while Cole applied it to every opportunity.

The reason for Cole's actions, however, was not due to an attachment to old ways. While many of the homicide policemen saw everything in a rather cold way, without getting involved in a personal way and without seeing the victims as more than just corpses (something that was quite recurrent mentioned on the academy), Cole had a completely different perspective of each case. That perspective led him to get a vision on the matter that none of his colleagues could match.

That was, precisely, his happy _advantage_ although many would see it as the opposite.

Tommy went to the other side of the car and headed for the driver's seat. However, Cole did not go to his respective place.

"Can you get ahead to take this idiot and process him?"

His partner turned to see him, somewhat confused by such a request.

"Sure. But, where are you going?"

"I have to take care of another business."

"Business? What business?"

Cole did not say anything. He just smiled and tilted his head a little to one side. That was enough to be understood.

"Ah, a business of _that_ class?"

Again, he did not respond with words.

"I'll see you in a little while." Cole pointed out and then started back up the street. "Don't miss that bastard."

"Of course not. Tonight, he will sleep in the shadows."

Tommy climbed into the car, turned on it, and then drove in the opposite direction.

* * *

Once the adrenaline and emotion of the fight subsided, Cole began to feel the heat of the blows received in the face, and also of the hits provided by knuckles. Definitely, he was not in the best condition to go on a date, if that was the case. He would have to put ice on that wounds when he got home, and clean his knuckles with alcohol. But he did not care; to a certain extent, he was already used to it.

His destination was not very far. A few meters ahead of the scene of his fight, he entered a narrow, somewhat hidden alley. There was nothing in that space, beyond some trash cans and a fire escape stairs on the side of the left building.

He looked around, making sure there was no one, not inside the alley, as if outside. He took out a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He put one in his mouth and lit it. From the first breath, he was already feeling more relaxed, and the pain eased.

He remained standing in that place, just waiting. The person who had gone to see was already there; he knew that. He could feel it in all his bones. It was a sensation between pain and tickling; hard to describe, and more to imagine.

A slight cold air snorted, touching his face delicately. Beneath his suit, his skin bristled. He released a thick puff of smoke into the air, and then turned to the side, further down the alley.

And there she was: Rebecca Snyder, with coppery hair in a tangle, and her face pale, except for the blows that had left brown and purple spots that stood out remarkably. Her long neck was marked by the prints of long and thick fingers that had left furrows on her skin when pressed with excessive force; the fingers of the same fists that a few minutes ago were trying to hit him. Her blouse was torn, leaving one of her breasts exposed, and her skirt lifted. Her thighs were stained with blood, drawing thin threads that ran down his legs to almost reaching her ankles.

Her sight was lost, set somewhere on the dirty floor of the alley. Her arms fell to the sides without the slightest force in them.

Cole, more than feeling scared or disturbed by such an image, every time he saw her he could only feel tremendous anger. If he could, he would have killed that bastard right there, and possibly he would have won a medal with it; not in that life, but maybe in the next. But he was a policeman, and he had to behave as such. He had joined the force precisely to help people like Rebecca, but even so, he must continue to follow the rules of the living.

He threw his cigarette barely started on the floor, and stepped on it with his toe. He kept his distance, waiting for Rebecca to turn to see him, but she did not. She kept looking at the floor, as if that ball of paper near her feet, moving slightly from side to side just a few centimeters by the wind, was something exciting.

"It's over, Rebecca," he informed her after a while, very softly in her voice. "I caught him. He will pay for what he did to you and the others. And he won't hurt someone else again."

She continued without reacting as if his words were distant murmurs in the wind that were not addressed to her.

Cole approached cautiously; the closer he came, the colder the air became. He raised his right hand intending to place it on his shoulder, but at the last moment decided not to.

"You can rest now. I will take care of everything else."

Then it followed a few seconds of complete silence and calm. Even the sounds of the street, the walk of people, the noise of the cars, everything seemed to have vanished.

Suddenly, Rebecca began to raise her face slowly and to turn it in the same way towards him. Her blue eyes, in those reddish and absent-minded moments, rested on the detective, to which he responded only with a modest smile.

"Thank you..." the woman whispered slowly, but still her voice resounded loudly in Cole's head like an echo.

Silence comes next, another breath of cold air, and then... nothing. The noise of the street and people returned, the usual heat returned little by little, and Rebecca Snyder disappeared without a trace. It would be the last time Cole would see her, or that was at least what Cole expected.

Already at that point, he did not remember when it had started. In his almost thirty years, looking back, it seemed as if it had always been like this: to be able to see and talk to the dead. What he did remember clearly was the moment in which he decided what use to give to such a singular quality. When instead of running away from that girl who had been poisoned by her mother, agreed to listen to her and prevent the same thing happening with his sister. He learned that way the spirits that came to him, for the most part, they did not intend to hurt him but fed by their own confusion and fears. They saw him as a beam of light that could help them, and he decided that within his faculties, he would try to be one.

Of course, not all the ghosts that came to him did it with good intentions. But over time, he managed to control even more his skills including understanding that they had much higher qualities than he had expected as a child. These qualities could help keep such entities away, or even invoke them if required.

But of course, Cole did not achieve all that alone; if so, he would possibly remain as the child hiding behind his blankets, in a false attempt to protect himself from beings he did not understand. But thanks in particular to two people, he managed to take the right steps. The first of them, surprisingly, was another ghost, and he was who encouraged him to no longer be so afraid of them. Cole knew the second person when he was about to enter adolescence; when the apparitions became much more frequent and much more dangerous.

That person, precisely, was about to call him.

Cole left the alley with the clear intention of lighting another cigarette. He had just placed it on his lips when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pants. He hurried to get it out and saw displayed on the screen an unregistered number. But, besides that, it started with the code of another state.

He tried to remember which city the code belonged to, but it did not come to his head quickly, and the phone kept ringing. His immediate decision was to answer. It was not uncommon for people of unknown number to call him since he often distributed his presentation card among people he felt might need it. However, what was a little more unusual, was that these types of calls would come from outside the city... except for a particular case, which was the one that came to mind just after responding.

"Detective Sear," he answered firmly, as his years of police had accustomed him.

"Good fight, Detective Sear," he heard a woman's voice on the other end of the line pronounce; a very, very recognizable woman's voice. "Have you ever considered a career in boxing?"

A broad smile of emotion crossed Cole's lips.

"Eleven? What a surprise!"

He heard a small, modest giggle from the other side.

"That didn't sound sincere."

"Because it is not, I'm not really surprised. Were you spying on me? You won't be calling me just to scold me for the fight, will you?"

"Actually, it was a coincidence. And I'm sure that guy deserved that facial rearrangement."

"I guarantee you that he deserved that and more."

Again, some friendly giggles from both. Cole started walking along the sidewalk towards the headquarters, having the phone at every moment against his ear."

Jane Wheeler, Eleven for friends, ran a Foundation dedicated primarily to helping children like him. With her guidance, he learned to understand how to use better his skills; or, as she called it, his "Shining."

"I'm sorry to bother you so suddenly," Eleven murmured, once the initial greetings had passed, "but I need to ask you a favor."

"For you, I do whatever, you know it," Cole said to answer immediately. He did not work regularly at the Foundation, but he was always open to doing so as soon as the opportunity presented itself. "Any other Foundation child is frightened by incomprehensible phenomena for the rest of your assistants?"

"Something like that. But I suspect that it could be a case closer to the other type of phenomena that you tend to see."

Cole's right eyebrow arched with intrigue.

"Other type?"

"You know, those who are not precisely ghosts."

That single clarification was quite clear to him; he did not say it in words, but his silence indicated this to his interlocutor. Also, that made something more worrying about the reason for her call.

"It is a girl who has skills and behaviors that are quite worrying, in many ways. I assigned the case to Matilda Honey, one of my most trusted and committed collaborators. I think you've never had the opportunity to meet her before."

To Cole, the name did not come to mind; he would definitely remember someone whose last name was "Honey." It lent itself so easily to a couple of jokes that it could even be considered a boring challenge.

Eleven continued.

"She's a woman quite capable of anything, and I say it almost literally. However, she doesn't have the kind of experience you have with cases like this."

Cole thought a little about everything he had heard. Much of his attention had been left behind in the conversation.

"What do you think it is, Eleven?" He questioned with notorious seriousness in his tone.

Eleven took a couple of seconds before answering.

"I don't know for sure. It's more like a feeling; a horrible feeling."

"It's better not to take your feelings lightly, especially if they are horrible. What do you need me to do?"

"Originally I intended to ask you if you could take care of it, but Matilda expressed very strongly her refusal to leave the case. Even so, I would feel calmer if you saw this kid and gave your opinion to Matilda about her. And, if you can, support her in the following steps to follow."

"Sure, there's no problem. When should I be there?"

Eleven stammered, confused by the unexpected response.

"But I still don't give you all the details of the case. I haven't even told you where you should go..."

"Hey, I said I'd do anything for you," the detective interrupted firmly, "so I don't need any more details. Also, I just closed a complicated case, and I could use a short vacation. Just give me a few days to finish the paperwork, and see what dates I have to appear in court."

"You're all charming, Cole," the woman murmured with a warm tone. "Then we will be in contact to talk more calmly about the case."

"Sure, you always know where to find me."

Being about to cut, Eleven stopped him.

"Ah, one more thing, Cole. Try to be... careful with Matilda. You've never met anyone like her before."

"Why do you say that?" He asked, intrigued. "Does Miss Honey have two heads or can she blow up mine?"

"Unmistakably, she doesn't have two heads. About the other thing..." Eleven left the words in the air, leaving Cole a bit confused. "I think you two will get along, after a while. I leave you to finish your paperwork. We talk this night."

"Sure. Say hello to Mike by me."

When he cut off the communication, Cole stopped for a moment to meditate, standing there on the sidewalk. He sounded pretty sure a few moments ago on the phone, but actually, he was not so much.

He moved a little closer to a bench, and let himself fall into it. He took out his cell phone again and started dialing a number. On the other side, the person attended by the third beep.

"Father Michael," he said enthusiastically, though solemnly. "Do you have time to receive me later...? No, nothing terrible especially. It's just... a horrible feeling."

* * *

After several days of meetings and agreements, Ann Thorn, with maiden name Rutledge, decided to take a night off on her business trip in Los Angeles and go to the Opera. And what better companion for a night like that than his beloved nephew, Damien? After all, those same meetings and agreements they had also occupied him; although not as much as she expected.

Damien was reluctant at first, but in the end, he hesitantly agreed. They both get ready right on time, and they climbed into the limo with Billy to take them to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. That trip, however, was a little silent.

Ann was a woman who was already forty—five years old, elegant and very good looking. She had long curly black hair that fell loose on her shoulders that night. She had put on a long black evening dress, with bare shoulders, and matching high heels. She was also retouching her lips with an intense red that stood out in her white face. She was, in a few words, a stunning woman, one of those who each year they live, they look even better.

"The critics had spoken very well about this opera," Ann commented just after finishing painting her lips. "Let's hope it's worth it."

"Yes, I'm sure you want to see it for the good reviews," said the boy beside her, with marked sarcasm.

Damien wore a suit of black coat and pants, a dark gray shirt, and a red tie with diagonal white lines. While his aunt did her thing with her lips, while both were sitting in the back seat of the limousine, he boringly checked his cell phone. There was a significant distance between them, which could hardly have been accidental.

Ann was the second wife of his uncle Richard, the older brother of his father. When he orphaned at a very young age, he remained in Richard and Ann custody. Time later, his uncle died in an accident when he was twelve, and since then he was in the care of Ann as his legal guardian.

But of course, much of that was lies, or at least almost nobody knew all the details about how his parents and uncle died, or who Ann Rutledge really was, or the purpose and means by which she had come to Damien's life.

"Occasional public appearances are sometimes necessary," Ann pointed out. "I thought I taught you that."

She then kept her mirror and lipstick, and immediately afterward she glanced at her companion.

"That tie suits you very well. You should use it more often."

"It works when I want to disguise myself as a clown," replied the boy with reluctantly.

His attitude was quite negative, and although Ann tried to hide her annoyance, it was indeed hard not to feel assaulted by her tone. That state had already lasted a couple of months. And although at times it seemed that everything was improving, abruptly they returned to the starting point.

The limousine approached its destination by North Grand Avenue.

"Leave us here, Billy," Ann pointed out, indicating the long stairs that led to the plaza of Los Angeles Music Center. The driver stepped aside, despite the red line, and both got out. First Damien, and then Ann, who had to get out without the help of her young escort, who still did not take his eyes off of his cell phone.

In any other similar case, that attitude would be a clear example of how deteriorated the current youth were. But that boy was not any young man, and his attitude toward her was due to more than youthful apathy.

On the sidewalk, there were many people, but from their position, they could notice that there was still more up in the square; all of them waiting for it to be time for the event to start.

The limo pulled away, and they both started walking toward the stairs. However, a voice behind them stopped them.

"Mrs. Thorn," said a tongue—in—cheek voice behind her, making the woman in black turn around quickly, and Damien did the same. Approaching by the sidewalk was a man of medium height, with a half—grown beard, striped shirt, jacket, and gray pants. And, perhaps most striking, a press badge hanging from the left pocket of his jacket. "You are Ann Thorn of Thorn Industries, right?"

Ann smiled gently, as she could. There were several reporters in the vicinity, some much more recognizable than others, even without distinctive badges on their chests. But that one, in particular, did not seem to be a show reporter. Also, Ann did not believe that many show reporters could recognize her so quickly on the street.

"If you want to know my opinion about the performance, you'll have to wait until after the end, boy," she said politely, and somewhat mockingly, and immediately set out to follow her progress; Damien followed her in silence.

"I'm not a show reporter, Mrs. Thorn," the reporter hurried to explain, creating some personal pride in Ann when she saw that she had been right. "I was waiting for you precisely. Can you give me just a second?"

"I don't have much time," Ann explained, as the three of them climbed the stairs. "The first call will be at any time. Besides, how did you know I would be here anyway?"

"With all due respect, but the CEO of a business consortium as big as Thorn Industries can hardly go unnoticed; especially if she comes with the young heir."

The man's attention focused on the boy who was walking beside the elegant woman. This one, when he felt his eyes, looked at him equally over his shoulder with his deep and cold blue eyes. The expression of the boy came to cause a slight jump on the reporter, for no reason.

"Damien Thorn, right?" He extended his hand in greeting, once they reached the bottom of the stairs. However, Damien did not return the address in any way.

"I'll get ahead of you, Aunt Ann," he said brusquely, and then walked away to the building on his own.

Ann looked at him for a few seconds, between surprised and annoyed; the latter was not sure if it was to his young nephew, or to the impertinent reporter who was bothering them.

"It will be quick," she heard the man say at her side with the same tongue—in—cheek voice as before, which did not do much to lessen her bad mood. "I just want to know your opinion about the rumors that hover in the financial sector, about your visit to Los Angeles is due to the possible purchase of Winston Motors by Thorn Industries."

From his position, the reporter could not see her face; and if he could see it, he might have thought twice before harassing her with such questions. Her inside boiled with the desire to take his stupid head and crashed it to the ground again and again until in her hands there were only bunches of flesh and bone. Unfortunately, that would be quite disturbing to the public relations of the company. So, instead of opting for that option, she decided to turn to him and smile normally.

"If I had something to say about it, why do you think I would tell you, dear? Especially if I consider that anything I say, or doesn't say, would cause a disturbance on Wall Street in the morning."

"You said it yourself," the reporter stressed, confident in his voice. "Sometimes refusing to deny a statement says much more than affirming it."

Surely he had felt brilliant for having done such a _cunning_ observation. Ann continued smiling, but the option of the head and the ground seemed more and more tempting to her.

"If you didn´t come for that, why don't you tell me what is the real reason for your stay in Los Angeles? That could calm rumors and riots, don't you think?"

"Tonight, I only come to spend a nice time with my beloved nephew. And you're spoiling me." Ann straightened her comment, giving him a pair of _friendly_ pats on his cheek. "You can write that if you wish. About Winston Motors..." She paused thoughtfully, tilted his head to the side, and then smiled confidently again. "No comment."

After saying that she began to move quickly to the auditorium, and even being him behind her, she could feel his proud smile, and how he took out his cell phone and called someone.

She could guess how he would take his _refusal to deny_ as an affirmation. She could see the tomorrow business section of a local newspaper, with a new without stating anything directly, but between the lines would inform to the world that Thorn Industries would absorb Winston Motors, and even give some predictions and theories of what that purchase could bring to the future. The shares of Winston Motors would start to rise, and those of Thorn Industries might drop a few points, but it won´t be something out of the ordinary.

But in the end, everything would be just reverend nonsense. Of course, the president of Winston Motors and she already had an alliance, and of course, they had seen her leave and enter their building several times throughout that week and a half. But this alliance was many things, but not _commercial_ ; not in the conventional sense that inept reporters like that understood, at least. The principal heads of Winston Motors were part of Them; followers of the same cause, allies in matters that were much deeper and more complex than a business purchase, or any other idea that the mundane mind of that individual could conceive.

But there was no point in continuing to think about it; there were more relevant issues that still worried her.

Already inside the auditorium, an usher did her the favor of guiding her to their private box, in which her companion was already seated; again, with his attention on the cell phone. Ann wondered if he really was seeing something interesting or if he was just doing it to annoy her.

She decided not to show her annoyance, and instead just smiled and sat in the chair next to him. There had been too many fake smiles for an afternoon. The stage was on the right side of the auditorium, and the position was more than adequate to contemplate it entirely without problems. The seats had been provided by their _friends_ of Winston Motors.

"The view is perfect, don't you think?" Commented the woman in black, but did not receive an answer; at least not immediately, although it was not as such an answer to her question.

"Was really a coincidence that we met that reporter?" The boy questioned with annoyance, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"What do you think?" Ann answered with an air of mystery. Actually, it had been a coincidence, but she considered a good idea to make him feel that she had some control over any situation. She just hoped he would not try to get in her head to verify it. "It would be good if you stopped shying away from the public eye like you have been doing these last months."

"I agreed to come with you here, or not? And it wasn't by of the good reviews. Also, I've been busy with other things to focus, more important than public relations."

"That's what I heard," Ann murmured with weariness in his tone. "Do you think it's the best thing for your image to be walking around in those places?"

Damien smiled, amused at the subtle questioning. Only that moment he finally turned off his cell phone and put it in his pocket.

"Of course you know it," he said. "I was wondering when you were going to mention it."

A few days ago, Damien had asked Billy to take him to a neighborhood on the south of the city, to look for a person. That neighborhood, however, was one of "those places" to which Ann referred so contemptuously.

"Don't get involved in my business. I know what I'm doing."

"And if someone had recognized you?"

"Someone like who? The councilors and the police sergeants who pass by there every two days?"

"It was not necessary for you to go yourself. You could have asked any of your men to take care of that... business for you."

"You mean _your_ men; yours and Lyons."

Ann turned to see him directly, stunned by such comment.

"Of course not. You know that any of the members of the Brotherhood would do anything for you. Including us."

Damien smiled again amused.

"You will forgive me if I put myself some skeptical of that affirmation."

There was a small silence, in which the echo of the footsteps and the murmurs of the people who were accommodating in their places resounded. The second call occurred during that time.

"What do you expect to get together with these girls?" The woman in black questioned, abruptly.

"I still don't know exactly. But I'm sure it will be an enlightening experience."

"You expect too much from these worldly and low beings," Ann exclaimed with might in her voice. "These girls are not worthy of you, beyond prostration at your feet. All beings in this despicable world, even those who think they are _special_ , are nothing but insects before you. Don't try to find your peers among them, when you are so above all of us..."

"Leave that already, will you, Ann?" He interrupted her violently, giving her a furtive look of anger. "I'm not in the mood for your nonsense."

Ann's breath cut as soon as he rested his gaze on her. Those eyes no longer reflected the boy's usual coolness and tranquility, but a genuine and deep rage; of that which, if it were a little bigger, would have had a disastrous effect on her person.

Damien turned back to the stage, and crossed his legs, adopting a posture that seemed to indicate that he was the only person in that box; or, at least, the only one that interested him, even if it was a whim.

Ann lowered her gaze thoughtful and subjugated. She had not been aware until then of the dire situation between the two. Everything had started just a few months ago, after that stupid Economy Congress in New Hampshire. A single moment of carelessness, just a moment of not paying attention to everything that surrounded him, to everything that could be a potential danger, and everything ruined. Before, she was confident about it, sure that eventually it would pass and would be something unimportant. However, everything seemed to indicate that it would not be like that. It was not something that he would forget easily and could bring horrible consequences.

Everything she had done and sacrificed for the greater good, for the rebirth of a new era, at risk of being thrown away by the intervention of a young idiot girl who did not know with who she was playing.

"If I have done something to offend you, my lord, you know I will do anything to regain your trust." She raised her hand then, intending to place it on top of his. "Anything…"

Before she could even touch his white skin, the boy quickly removed his hand from his back, as if that possible contact provoked disgust on him. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, with the same feeling he had just moments ago. He sat up straight in his chair and turned back to the stage.

Ann lowered her eyes, resigned. The third call came a little later, and the rest of the night fell in silent.

 **END OF CHAPTER 08**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _—The character of **Cole Sear** is based on the child protagonist of the film **Sixth Sense** of **1999** , having at this time already around **twenty-seven** or **twenty-eight years** , in contrast to the **nine** he had in that film. The events of the film are respected as they are shown in it, without any change at the moment. The skills of Cole, however, will have some evolution compared to what we saw in the film, which later chapters will explain._

 _—The character of **Ann** that appeared in this chapter is based and inspired by the combination of two characters. Her role and relationship with **Damien** are based on **Ann Thorn** from the movie **Damien: Omen II** of **1978** , while his image and personality are based on **Ann Rutledge** from the television series **Damien** of **2016** , although both characters were never specified as the same. The main difference is that here it will be considered something younger so that it is more in line with current Damien's age. In addition to this, several of the events of Damien: Omen II will be taken and will adapt to the story, but in the case of the outcome that the character had at the end of that film, it will be changed._


	9. 09 Kill her

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 09.  
** **Kill her**

It was a silent week during the sessions of Matilda and Samara. The day after what happened in the garden, and they talked about Carrie, Samara had not wanted to see her, claiming however that _maybe tomorrow_ ; at least that's how Dr. Scott send the message.

Matilda thought that perhaps the incident had been much more severe for Samara than she had anticipated. For her luck, the next day, Samara did agree to see her, just as she had promised. But that day and the two that followed, the opening of the girl was quite reduced, not to say that it was practically non-existent. She almost did not answer her questions, and for the most part, she kept silent instead. When Matilda asked her to do something special on paper, however, she accepted to do it in silence, but no more. Matilda tried a couple of times to talk to her directly about what happened, but she remained reluctant.

On that fourth day, in the middle of the session, Matilda mentioned Cody; how she would like she know him and that they both talk a little. Matilda told her that that could help a lot. Samara, however, just looked at her out of the corner of her eye in silence, but did not answer at all.

On the fifth day, Samara's attitude improved a little. She was already more receptive, although somewhat absent. She answered more, and no longer looked annoyed... but something else. Matilda did not identify it immediately, but it seemed to her that it could have been a pity. Almost ending the session, she asked again if she wanted to talk about what happened the other day, but she just shook her head.

The sixth day seemed like it would be a little like the previous one. They were in the same room with a children's theme, sitting on that small table for which both were relatively large. Samara traced images on the paper, each time in a much more controlled and rapid, but each continued to convey a rather cold and dark feeling.

Matilda was in her chair, watching her, and from time to time writing down her observations in her notebook. She was really absorbed in her own thoughts, which were between the present moments but mostly in the whole situation that had been accompanying them for almost a week now.

Suddenly, something changed abruptly.

"I'm sorry," she heard Samara say out of nowhere, slowly but clear, after almost half an hour of absolute silence.

Matilda looked up, almost alarmed. Samara watched her out of the corner of her eye from the other end of the small table. Her long hair fell forward.

"What do you say, dear?"

Samara looked down, distressed. Her fingers tightened between them on the table, nervously.

"I'm sorry for what I said the other day in the garden," she whispered slowly, not daring to see her directly. "And I'm sorry about how I behaved with you these days. Are you angry with me?"

Matilda felt really confused by this sudden change. She did not expect Samara to apologize, especially so abruptly. It had taken her by surprise, but she could not let that situation get out of hand.

"No, of course not, little one; it doesn't care," she answered quickly, smiling at her with all the possible kindness because it was not very easy to pretend that what happened did not affect her at all. "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable in some way. But what I have told you since the first time we saw each other is the only truth."

Matilda then extended her hand over the table, very slowly, to place it on top of hers. She thought for a moment that Samara would take them away, but she did not. She left them there, and at last, she turned to see her, and she could see a certain glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"I'm here to help you get out of here and go back to your parents. And I promise you again that I will do everything, everything possible to make that happen. Do you trust me?"

Samara did not respond immediately, but in the end, she nodded her head; at first slowly, but then with a little more effusiveness.

"I trust you, Matilda. That's why I don't want you to be upset with me. I like you; you're not like other doctors, or like other adults. You don't fear me."

"Why would I fear a girl as sweet and pretty like you?" Matilda commented with a slightly playful tone, and for the first time in all the time she had been in Eola, she noticed how the little girl's cheeks blushed, standing out considerably on her pale skin.

Samara looked away at that moment, as did her hands; more out of pity than discomfort, according to his perspective.

"And you don't have to worry," Matilda continued "I'm not upset at all. In fact, I'm glad we can talk about this and fix it."

Samara nodded slightly.

"I'm sorry I reacted that way," she said firmly. "I didn't meet Carrie, but I'm sure she must have liked you too."

Matilda felt a mixture of emotions at that moment. On the one hand, a puncture in the stomach at the mention of Carrie. And, on the other, pride and happiness at seeing Samara in such an expressive and mature state of speech, more attached to her age.

"I don't know. I only know that I could have done much more for her. But I didn't have enough time or chance. But, it would be better if we no longer talk about it ... at least for now, if you agree."

"Yes," the girl said cautiously. "I won't do it again."

"Thanks, Samara."

Matilda felt a slight relief in her heart. However, it was not complete. If there was something she had learned in her years of treating people, especially children, it is that they could hardly let go of such a dense and profound subject as that. She knew that sooner or later, they would have to touch it again, and she hoped to be better prepared for it at that moment.

"About your friend you told me you wanted to introduce me," Samara commented suddenly as if she wants to change the theme. This surprised Matilda again. She was sure she was talking about Cody, but Matilda thought that Samara had not even paid attention when she told her about it. "Does he also do things like us?"

"It makes other things, much more unique," Matilda answered with a ring of mystery surrounding her words. "But if your question is if he also shines, yes. You would like him; he is a middle school teacher and an expert on butterflies. Is very smart."

"Like you?"

"Not so much," Matilda answered with false pride, which made Samara smile jovially.

Smile and blush? That was too good to be true. What exactly had caused this change? How much had she been thinking those days when she did not speak to her? She would have liked to ask her but didn't know if it was the right time.

"If you think it could help me... I'd like to meet him."

"Really?"

Samara nodded again.

"But before that... there's something... I think I should tell you."

Her face lost its color again, her smile disappeared, and her long black hair fell back on her face, hiding a large part of it when she looked down at the image she was creating at that moment.

"I haven't told it to the other doctors or my parents."

"What is it about?" Matilda questioned, intrigued by the strange air that suddenly began to surround her.

"It's about my nightmares, the ones I told you about before." Samara was silent for a few seconds. Her hands were on her thighs, under the table, but Matilda still felt that she was squeezing the fabric of her dressing between her fingers. Nervous signal? Or... fear maybe? "There's something about these that I didn't tell you, something that always appears in them."

Her voice complemented her first guess. Whatever she was about to tell, it seemed to affect her, at a deep level. Matilda leaned a little towards her, trying to place her face at the same height as hers, and be able to see her eyes.

"What is it?"

Samara shook her head slowly.

"I don't know... it's..."

Suddenly, it was heard loudly as someone knocked on the door suddenly, interrupting the words of the girl.

"Give us a second," Matilda exclaimed so that she could be heard by whoever was outside since it was not the time to be interrupted. However, they insisted again. "I said a second!" She exclaimed again, now with more force, but the result was the same.

Matilda let out a small curse. She put her notebook in her purse, and hurriedly stood up.

"Excuse me just for a second, is that okay?"

Samara nodded and watched silently while she left the room.

On the other side of the door, Matilda found herself face to face with the complacent face of Dr. Scott, who smiled at her when he saw her.

"Dr. Scott, always so timely," Matilda pointed out with a touch of subtle sarcasm.

"You'll be grateful for my interruption, doctor. From now on, you can't say again that I don't do you any favor."

Matilda arched an eyebrow, confused.

"What are you talking about now?"

"I managed to convince Mrs. Morgan to talk to you."

Although angry at first, Matilda's next reaction was one of a surprise after hearing him say those simple words.

"Samara's mother? Seriously?"

Matilda had asked to speak with Anna Morgan, also interned in that same place, since her third day in Eola. But Dr. Scott's reluctance had been so great, and he did not mention it again, so she had believed that he had simply thrown her crazy and ignored her request. She also, after the conversation with Eleven, her trip to Seattle, Moesko and Silverdale, and then the incident in the garden, she had practically forgotten it too.

But it remained as a subject that could not be ignored.

"That's excellent... when can it be?"

"Right now."

"Now? Matilda exclaimed loudly, stunned."

Scott nodded, quite expressive in his act.

"At this moment, she is considerably calm and seems receptive. I recommend you take advantage because I would not know how long it will last."

Matilda hesitated a moment. Talk to Mrs. Morgan was vital, indeed; the relationship with her was quite primordial for the proper development of Samara. But equally, the conversation they were about to have seemed quite important.

In the end, she had to make a quick decision. She could always talk with Samara tomorrow if she agreed, but Anna Morgan was a very different case.

"It's okay. Just give me a minute."

"No hurry," Scott murmured quietly.

Matilda entered the room again, but not before giving a small break to try to calm down, and thus be able to speak with Samara in a better way. Upon entering, the girl stared at her expectantly. She smiled at her, again as sincerely as possible.

"Samara, I have good news for you," Matilda exclaimed enthusiastically, before sitting back in the same chair as before. "Dr. Scott just told me that I can talk to your mother, right now."

The black-haired girl's eyes widened when she heard that, and without saying a word, you could tell she was trying to say: _Really?_

"That's why I have to finish our session early. But I'll be back tomorrow in the early hours so we can continue with this talk, is that okay?"

Samara conveyed a mixture of feelings on her face, between emotion and disappointment at the news. Like Matilda, surely she was torn between the importance of both situations. Everything that involved her mother was undoubtedly significant to her, but so was what she wanted to tell her.

"But, will you return tomorrow?" Samara questioned, something uncertain.

"Of course. I promise you."

Matilda then extended her hand to her in greeting. Samara looked at her for a moment, confused, but later agreed to shake her hand. Matilda made them go down and up repeatedly in a somewhat exaggerated and comical way, which made Samara smile again amused.

"Thanks," the little one murmured, with a slightly softer and sweeter tone.

"You don't have to thank me for anything. Do you want me to say something to your mother for you?"

Samara nodded slowly again.

"Tell her that I love her."

* * *

Scott led Matilda through a series of corridors to Anna Morgan's room. It was practically on the other side of the hospital; on the opposite end to Samara's room, in fact. Matilda if that would have been the intention.

She had previously studied everything she could about Mrs. Morgan. She was a well-to-do woman, raised always surrounded by horses, which were her greatest passion. The only thing she might have desired for more than her horses, raised, and cared for them by herself, was being a mother. She tried it without success several times, and that's where the adoption process came in. These last points, however, she did not know them until she spoke directly with Anna's husband.

According to what the doctors said, Samara had "attacked" her with her abilities; just like the horses. Was no record how, or why, this attack happened. But it left her personality deteriorated. There were angry and insane episodes in the following days, added to suicidal tendencies, which culminated in at least one failed attempt. After that, she had been interned there with Samara.

In the descriptions of what Samara did to her (and where the theory is derived that she did the same to the horses), Anna claimed to see images. Horrible images, returning to her from time to time, and unable to get out of her head, causing her an intense obsession. The descriptions of those images in the reports that Dr. Scott passed on to her were quite vague. The recurrent elements seemed to be darkness, water, cold, death; not always visually, but at least in the feeling they conveyed. Matilda could not prevent thinking that the same thing happened with the images she had seen Samara creating on paper.

Outside the room, a male nurse waited for them and opened the door with their key as soon as they approached.

"All yours," Scott exclaimed, leaving her free to pass.

"Won't you come with me?" Matilda questioned, somewhat surprised.

"I thought you liked privacy, Dr. Honey," he murmured in an ironic tone, which Matilda did not find funny. "Besides, she specifically requested to speak with you alone. So, go ahead."

He extended his hand again to indicate that she should enter now, and for a moment, Matilda felt as if she were walking into some kind of trap.

She walked cautiously in front of Scott and the nurse and entered the room. Hardly and placed one foot inside, when she felt the door closed behind her. A little Déjà vu of her first night in that place came to mind.

The room in size and appearance was quite similar to Samara's. According to what she had read in her file, Mrs. Morgan was in a place like that not because she was dangerous, but rather because of the risk of hurting herself. Although evidently, that had not happened again in the last weeks, Dr. Scott still did not think it was enough to change her to another more accessible dormitory.

Partly it was understandable, considering the circumstances. When someone gets that idea into their mind, it was complicated to let it go, and less in just a couple of months; with more reason if what she and Cody thought about the true nature of Samara's Shining was right.

However, the room had something that Samara's did not: a window in the back wall, which if she was not mistaken, must have seen to the backyard for granted. Through it entered abundant sunlight; in fact, the light in the room was off, and the one that came through the window was the only illumination. It seemed little, but that single detail changed the feeling of confinement. In fact, it was there where Matilda glimpsed the occupant of that room. She was standing in front of the window. She was staring for it the forest on the other side of the fence surrounding the hospital.

Anna Morgan was a tall woman; definitely taller than her, although that was not saying much. She had black hair, very long and loose like Samara's, although hers was somewhat less straight and looked a little careless. She also wore a white hospital gown, but on top of this, she wore a light brown sweater. She didn't look at her when she entered, or when they closed the door behind her. I was like if she hadn't noticed her presence.

"Mrs. Morgan?" Matilda murmured slowly, but she still did not notice any reaction on her part. "Mrs. Morgan, I'm Matilda Honey. Her husband…"

"I know who you are," the woman interrupted in a low, ironic voice. "You're the miraculous doctor, who came to... cure that girl."

Anna turned slowly towards her, and then Matilda finally saw her face; this, however, left Matilda somewhat impressed. She looked older for the age she had, with several wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. These, precisely, were reddened and had two large circles under them. She was smiling, but the rest of her face seemed too expressionless... frighteningly expressionless.

Matilda did not let that intimidate her, and instead, she remained as firm as she had entered.

"Mrs. Morgan, your daughter..."

"My daughter?" She exclaimed with an exaggerated surprise, followed by a sharp laugh, and then a complete expression of coldness. "That thing is not my daughter..."

The way she had said that was so charged with hatred and anger that Matilda's blood turned cold. It was almost as if she had been talking about some animal, insect... or even something less than that.

"I can see you're a smart girl," Mrs. Morgan added. "Surely you found out it, right?"

Matilda refused to answer, although her silence was possibly sufficient response. Instead, she preferred to finish what she was going to say before being interrupted.

"Samara doesn't have any disease that deserves to be cured."

"Tell that to my horses," Mrs. Morgan said, beginning to move toward the bed. "My beautiful horses. Beings so noble, so loyal, so pure... until that demon went into their heads, and shook them to the point where they preferred to end their lives before spending another second with those horrible images. I understand them because I went through the same thing..."

After surrounding the bed, she ended practically in front of Matilda, and took advantage of the position to show her wrists; or, instead, the cuts wounds on them, recently healed. The psychiatrist fell silent; it was really a striking image to see, no matter how many times or whoever they were.

Anna stepped back, hugged herself, and sat on the edge of the bed. She smiled at her again in the same awkward way as before.

"I should have had better use the knife in her."

"Mrs. Morgan..."

"Anna," she cut off abruptly, in a tone of fake friendliness. "Call me, Anna. Surely you have read so much of our lives in your files and psychological analysis, which you will already feel like part of our sweet family. Or not? That was my sin, you know? To want so much a family; Longing to be a mother. I should have understood that it was not my destiny. But no, no... I was arrogant and selfish. I wanted everything. A loving husband, a nice house, a large ranch, and my beautiful horses. Nothing of that was enough for Anna Morgan. She had to bring darkness and destruction to her life to feels full. And you looked at where I ended up with that."

She looked around, pointing with her eyes to the room where they were.

It was a bit difficult for Matilda to keep her poker eyes. The news that she might finally speak with Mrs. Morgan came to her so suddenly and unexpectedly that she had not been able to prepare herself in advance for that talk; especially mentally. She knew that the situation was difficult, but the attitude she now saw in this woman showed that she had no idea.

Whatever it was, she had to try to stay calm. Matilda approached her, standing in front. She would have liked to have a chair to sit on, but it was obviously one of those dangerous things to have in a patient's room.

"Anna, I know that at the moment you feel confused, upset, and scared, and that's normal," she began to say softly. She looked at her, intently in silence. "But you have to understand that everything Samara has done, she has never done with bad intention. Neither against you, your husband, or your horses. She still doesn't dominate what she can do, but she will; I'm here for that. And once she achieves it, she can have a normal life, like any other girl. You and she will be able to return home, and everything will be like before."

"Like before?" Anna exclaimed in disgust. "I won't put a foot on that island if that girl is even close to it. In comparison, I'm much safer here."

Matilda felt a little lump in her throat as she heard her say that.

"That will be your decision. I can't force you to accept her again in your life. But you must at least try to forgive her and forget this. Regardless of who has given birth, for her, you are her mother, her only mother."

Matilda squatted in front of her, trying to put her face on the same level. Anna kept looking at her in silence and coldly, without changing to her words.

"Samara regrets everything she's done and wants to fix things. She has worked hard and has made signs of progress. But she can't get rid of all this entirely if you don't allow it. Both need each other to heal, and I am here to help you; both of you."

Matilda smiled slightly at her, but Anna did not respond. She looked at her in silence for a long time, but then began to laugh out of nowhere, taking the young brunette by surprise.

"You are as naive as Dr. Scott told me."

"Sorry?" Matilda exclaimed, confused.

Anna bent her body to the front and took her abruptly from the right wrist as if to make sure she did not try to move away.

"Do you think I asked him to talk to you so you could give me a sermon like that?" Anna exclaimed with her face near hers; her voice became hoarse and threatening. "No... No forgiveness, no healing. You don´t heal the devil, Dr. Honey: you pierce his heart with a sword."

"What?"

Matilda was bewildered. Anna's gaze had become lost and absent. The fingers of her hand tightened around her wrist, and they trembled slightly. She could even see the veins in her temples throb as if she were making an intense effort.

"Scott says you've earned that monster's trust," she continued. "She let you approach her, let her guard down before you. That's why you have to do what I couldn´t."

Her breathing stirred, her eyes opened wider than Matilda would have imagined possible. These were injected with blood, and the veins in her temples throbbed even more.

"Kill her..." Anna snapped out almost like a scream of pain. "Kill that girl before it's too late. You have to do it. Water is the only thing that can end it; it is the only way."

"Let me go, you don't know what you're saying," Matilda snapped, trying to get away from the firm grip, but she would not let go.

"You haven't seen what I did. You haven't seen what is hidden behind that face. You haven't seen the horrors that will unleash in this world if you don't finish it here and now!"

Her voice was filled with great desperation, and at the same time, she began to shake it with every word she uttered. Matilda kept fighting, trying to make her release her wrist, but her grip was too strong, almost inhuman. In the anxiety that all this provoked, she was tempted to use her telekinesis and force her away violently. However, she had to resist. She should not use his ability against people unless the situation was absolutely necessary. Luckily, on that occasion, it was not.

Matilda heard suddenly how the door behind her opened. Alerted surely by Anna's screams, the nurse who had seen outside, accompanied by a second, entered the room, took Anna from her arms, and between the two managed to separate her from her. As soon as she was free, Matilda stepped back several steps and took her wrist with her other hand.

The nurses pulled Anna to her bed. She kicked and shouted with despair, and even tried to scratch the face of one of the men with her long nails.

"Kill her! Kill her!" She kept on screaming again and again before one of the nurses put an injection in his arm. It took a few seconds, maybe a minute, but little by little, her screams turned into little ones, then murmurs, and finally silence.

Anna closed her eyes and stayed, apparently, asleep. Only then Matilda breathed again, and her feet answered to leave the room. Outside was Scott, with his hands in the pockets of his white coat, and a mocking smile on the lips.

"I suppose it didn't go as well as I expected," he pointed out amused, adjusting his glasses with one hand.

"You told me she was calm and receptive!" Matilda claimed to him, annoyed while carving her wrist, which had been somewhat red after being held that way. Scott, on the other hand, shrugged.

"She was, or so it seemed to me. Maybe you said something that bothered her."

Suddenly, Matilda returned to the wicked thought that had crossed her before entering: had that really been a trap? Some revenge for any of her previous comments outside the place? No, in spite of everything, she refused to believe in it. John Scott could be as pedantic and annoying as a doctor of his position could be; but at least she hoped that he had enough professional ethics not to jeopardize the health of a patient, and of a colleague, at the expense of a joke in bad taste.

Most likely, Anna Morgan's condition was even worse than her evaluations had thrown up until then. Even worse than the good doctor, or even her husband, had noticed. Still but of what Matilda had foreseen.

What had all this been that she shouted at her? Was she aware of what she was saying? Matilda would have liked to think that nobody was capable of thinking that kind of things about an innocent girl... but she knew very well that it was not like that. She had seen how people reacted to something they did not understand; especially, when that something caused them some damage.

There were quite serious implications she had not foreseen, and that in hindsight, she realized that she should have prepared, at least since she knew that Samara was adopted. How would you solve such an error at this point?

"Well, it ended faster than I expected." She heard Scott point, causing her to look at him again. "Do you want to continue talking with Samara, Doctor?"

Matilda hesitated. Perhaps it was the right thing to do, considering that they had left an important conversation pending. However, after seeing the real state of her mother and her position before her... how could she see her? What will she go to say? What was the direction she had to take from then on?

It was best to take a few moments to think about what her new strategy should be, and the steps to follow. The situation had become too delicate, and she must treat it as such.

"No, I'll be back tomorrow morning to talk to her." The psychiatrist answered and prepared to go once to her hotel to rest and meditate a bit.

"And maybe then we can sit down and talk calmly about what you owe me, Doctor." She heard Scott say with moderate force behind her.

Matilda abruptly stopped her steps, and turned to him, totally confused.

"Excuse me?"

The doctor put his hands back into his pockets and approached her with firm steps until he stood right in front of her.

"I have done and allowed everything you have wanted," he explained. "You had been like a kid asking Santa Claus for gifts, and I have given everything you wanted from my magic bag. But it's not Christmas, and this was supposed to be a give and take agreement, and I have not received anything yet. I think you had spent enough time with the Subject, so you can share something with me. Or is it that in all this time you have only been talking about dolls and still have nothing worth sharing? Do you really expect me to believe that?"

What it lacked; that was definitely what she needed the least in those moments.

Matilda breathed deeply, though discreetly. She had to accept that part of the good doctor was right in his claim. He told her the first day he arrived there that she would share everything she felt pertinent to his investigation, and for the moment she had not. She would have to keep her word, although she had to be careful about what tell him and what keeps secret.

"All right. Tomorrow, after finishing talking with Samara, I will share what I consider worthy of your interest; as we had agreed."

That said, and without waiting for an answer, she turned back and kept walking, although now more quickly.

"Do I have your word?" She heard him exclaim loudly as she walked away.

"Don't press, Scott," she answered with a vengeance, though in truth she was not sure if she had said it aloud, low, or maybe she had only thought about it.

In all the fuss, Matilda had been unable to pass the message Samara wanted to tell her mom. However, seeing the situation, it could not have been worth anything.

 **END OF CHAPTER 09**

 **Author's Notes:**

 _— **Anna Morgan** is based on the respective character from **The Ring** of **2002** and The Ring 2 of **2005**. In these films, we didn´t see her much. For this reason, so much of her personality and way of acting and thinking is based more on a personal interpretation. Also, like **Richard** , **Samara** and the other characters corresponding to the franchise of The Ring, Anna is influenced by the temporary change mentioned in the **Notes of Chapter 01** , which places the events between Samara, his parents, and the Eola Psychiatric in a more current era._


	10. 10 That girl did it, right?

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 10  
** **That girl did it, right?**

After her pleasant meeting with Anna Morgan, Matilda took the rest of the afternoon to rest, think, and decide. She failed to do much of any of the three things. In the early night, she returned to her hotel room, took a hot bath to relax, and changed her clothes to something more comfortable: a baggy shirt she was given at a congress in Arizona she had attended four months ago, orange shorts, and no stockings or heels for the rest of that day.

She stood a few minutes in front of her laptop, trying to write some notes about that day. However, what kind of records could she write from the fact that a woman had directly asked her to kill her daughter? Yes, there was definitely a lot that could be taken out of that behavior, but she could only think about how much something like that could hit and affect the recovery of her accurate patient.

She gave up about it and preferred to do something else to clear her mind: talk with her mother.

In the time she had been in Salem, she had spoken with her mother by a phone call two or three times, especially on the weekend. Usually, she would first send a couple of messages to make sure she was not busy, and then would dial to speak more comfortably; neither was at all fanatic of having long conversations by text, especially if they have important things to say. On that occasion, however, Matilda chose to call directly without prior notice.

Luckily, Jennifer Honey was not busy or not enough to not answer a call from her beloved adopted daughter. When her phone rang, she was alone and silent, sitting comfortably in one of the armchairs in the living room of her spacious house in Arcadia, California, reading a detective-themed pocket novel under the light of an old-fashioned but functional lamp. But she did not hesitate to put her book aside when she saw the photo of Matilda and her, appearing suddenly on the screen of her phone, accompanied by that generic tune of an incoming call that she had never known, or even duly investigated, how to change.

At first, she felt somewhat alarmed by the sudden call, but that was something of any mother, or so she supposed. Matilda soon explained that it was nothing to be alarmed about, but that it was something a bit serious and she needed to talk to someone. Jennifer already knew the general context of Samara and her parents (as far as professional secrecy allowed), so the previous introduction was quite short, and she could go almost immediately to tell her about the little fruitful meeting with Mrs. Morgan.

"It sounds horrible," Jennifer exclaimed, almost horrified right after Matilda finished her description of the encounter.

"Keep calm, I have faced more horrible things."

"How is that supposed to calm me?"

Jennifer's voice had taken an almost comic tone, admittedly accidentally, that Matilda was hopelessly amused. She raised her feet to the bed, sat down, and hugged her legs with her free arm. Finally, she rested her chin on her knees and stared at the television off.

"This girl's situation is so terrible," Matilda whispered slowly. "It seems as if every adult in her life, those who should take care or help her, only end up hating her, wanting to hurt or take advantage of her. Her biological mother, her adoptive parents, her doctors... And the worst part is that she is aware of that." She sighed regretfully. "She is so alone..."

"No, she's not," Jennifer pointed out firmly. "You are with her, and many times, all you need is a single person that extends her sincere hand to move forward."

A small smile peeked over Matilda's lips.

"I know that very well."

And she did know.

"But the truth is that I'm no longer sure what to do now..."

She lay on the bed, covering her eyes with her forearm.

"I made a rookie mistake, and now I have to remedy it in some way," she lamented, tiredly in her tone. "I got carried away by my perceptions and desires. And all this time, I have promised Samara to help her get out, meet her parents, and return to her normal life. But now, that may never happen."

She raised her arm from her eyes to her forehead and placed these on the white, smooth ceiling.

"It seems really difficult that the relationship with their parents can be repaired. Her mother is too affected and out of her mind, and her father doesn't really seem interested. I fear that it is likely that even if I manage to get her out of that Psychiatric Hospital, the Morgan's won't wish to continue taking care of her."

"They can't just get rid of their daughter that way."

"My parents did it, and I was their biological daughter."

"That was different. You actually got rid of them."

Matilda grimaced. That had some truth, in fact.

"You really don't think the father will agree to stay with her?" Jennifer questioned, trying to find some solution to all the problem.

"I can try to persuade him, but I have a feeling he won't do it without his wife. It may be a risky deduction, but it seems to me that she was the one interested in having children, and he only fulfilled her wish. Likewise, I think he contacted the Foundation more interested in save her than Samara."

Matilda had noticed all that since the conversation they had in Moesko. The way he expressed himself of Samara at times was too distant and absent; as if it were more of a neighbor or a distant relative than her father.

"I don't know how I'll do it, but I think I'll have to prepare Samara for that possibility. But I fear that no matter how I do, it will end up destroying her. If you saw how her eyes light up when we talk about her parents, especially her mother... And she, on her side, asks a complete stranger to kill her."

"What about her birth mother? Don't you think she might want to meet her and recover the time?"

Such a comment impressed Matilda so much that she unconsciously sat back on the bed, almost alarmed.

"The woman who wanted to drown her while she was a newborn? I don't think that will be a viable better option."

"You say she has been in treatment for twelve years. Maybe she's already better."

Matilda thought for a few moments. It was not a possibility that she had seriously considered, not even in those moments. Could it be possible? The more she thought about it, the less clear the "yes" or the "no" seemed to her as answers to that question.

"I don't know," she hesitated, somewhat uncertain. "I don't even know if she's really still alive. I hadn't had time to think about it properly."

"Don't let this affect you so much," Jennifer exclaimed in a somewhat empathetic tone. Matilda wondered if she had heard something in her voice that would make her comment. "It's not too late for you to take Jane's advice and pass the case to someone else."

"No," she said immediately firmly. "I can't do that, not now."

"I admire your effort to want to help all the children who need you, Matilda. But sometimes you must have enough humility to accept when you can't do it. Don't let your mere pride end up affecting you and that girl negatively."

"It's not pride..." she stammered, with the same feeling of doubt as before.

She rested her forehead against her hand and closed her eyes for a few moments. Was it pride that kept her there? Perhaps there was a bit of it because the thought of stepping back in those moments with the tail between the legs seemed cowardly and humiliating. Maybe she exaggerated. But more reasons prevented her from going back... more personal reasons than _mere pride_.

"What would have happened if you had done that?" She exclaimed suddenly, taking the woman completely by surprise on the other side of the line. "What would have happened if you had stepped aside? What would have happened to me? Would I have ended up like Carrie White, perhaps?"

A deep and awkward silence formed in those moments, of which Matilda immediately regretted having created. Even without uttering any sound, she could see her adoptive mother hesitating sitting in the armchair of her living room, facing the muted fireplace, with her arm resting against the side back, and her face full of confusion and fear at the mere mention of that name.

"I'm sorry," she excused herself, a little calmer. "Eleven told me that this case affects me too much because it reminds me of Carrie's... And I think she's right."

"Matilda..." Jennifer muttered, somewhat fearful, and unable to say anything else.

"They really do look alike so much, and not just because of the things their mother told me. She is so affected and hurt, and everyone around her already labels her as a monster. I feel that if I left her right now if I neglect a little, she would end like Carrie. And I can't let it happen again.

"It won't happen," Jennifer declared with much more certainty in her voice. "I know that no matter what you have to do, you will help this girl. You are the most capable person I know. So calm down, relax, and let that beautiful brain of yours think of the next step when you feel ready."

Matilda smiled, satisfied by those words.

"Thanks, mom."

She managed to hear a small, but present, laugh escaping from her mother's lips just after that comment.

"What? What happens?"

"I don't know. I only remembered when you started living with me, and it was tough for you to call me like that."

"How? Mom?" A pretty similar giggle arose from Matilda's lips without her proposing. She lay back on the bed but now face down, resting on her elbows and with his feet hanging from one of the side edges. "Don't worry, you'll always be Miss Honey for me. Even today, you continue teaching me as a good teacher."

Her voice was much quieter and more relaxed, and that caused the same feeling to flood, although to a lesser extent, to Jennifer Honey's chest.

"I promise I'll go visit you and Max as soon as I have a chance to leave here for a few days."

"Don't worry," Jennifer said sweetly; as sweet as her last name could be. "Your current case is seen to be very important. Here we will be waiting for you as long as necessary. But do your mother a favor: ask Jane for advice, she may be able to tell you what to do."

Matilda wanted to let out a moan of annoyance after hearing that comment, but it was drowned in her throat.

"So far I can hear how you roll your eyes, young lady," Jennifer said sternly, taking her adopted daughter by surprise. "You can't stay mad at her forever."

"I'm not mad," Matilda grumbled slowly. "I just can't run to Eleven every time I have a problem. Besides, she was supposed to send someone to help me, but she hasn't even told me who will be or when he will come."

"Maybe she's busy too."

"Maybe…"

Deep down, Matilda hoped that she had actually forgotten, or had not found that person with the _other type_ of experience. It was difficult for her to assume that someone could give her the help she needed at the time to remedy the problem that had arisen that same day. Besides, Samara had barely agreed to meet Cody; she couldn't just reach her with some other stranger.

That reminded her that she had to talk to Cody and see when he could see Samara. She made a quick mental note to speak to him in a little while; although first perhaps she had to determine whether she should talk to Samara about what happened with her mother, or not. Maybe it would be better to work it after she saw Cody and thus was more receptive... but what if she managed to detect some of it in her mind? Just as she had discovered about Carrie.

Hard decisions.

"Well, maybe I will call her," Matilda said after a while of meditation. But only to update it.

"That was enough for me."

Both laughed and continued talking casually for a few more minutes before said goodbye and hanging up.

"Thank you for everything, mom. I love you."

"And I to you, my dear."

Once they cut, Matilda lay down, with her chin resting on her arms, and her eyes on the red curtains, behind which the window overlooking the street and the air conditioner was hidden, at that time, turned off.

Matilda disliked hotels, but she found it relaxing; mainly because of its silence and its stillness. It reminded her of a library. That kind of silence always helped her think better. No scandals, no laughs, no televisions on making a devilish noise, no people screaming. Of course, there was not always absolute silence in the hotels, but that one, in particular, was very calm. However, even then, she could not decide more easily her actions.

She placed her cell phone in front of her face, and stared at the screen as if trying to turn it on with her mind; In fact, maybe she could do it if she tried.

Should she really talk to Eleven? She did not feel very encouraged to do so. During those days, she had been mailing her progress; or at least the ones she considered necessary to be aware of.

Not that she was upset about her last talk, but... she wasn't happy either.

Before talking to her, she should first talk to Cody and tell him what Samara had said. By mere reflection, she went to her contacts, but after two seconds she remembered that she did not have his new number stored, but that Eleven had passed it on. She then went to the call log, looking back for the last call she had made; hadn't really had so many during those days, so it shouldn't be an exhaustive task either.

He stopped at the first unknown phone she had on her record, but... that wasn't Cody's; In fact, it was an incoming call, and a week ago, early.

It took her a while to remember it, but in the end, it came: Doug Ames's call, the day the incident with Samara occurred.

That had been completely erased. And, as she recalled, Doug said he would send her an email with the information that was possible about that hard case that Professor Armstrong had recommended reviewing with her. However, he never sent it, or at least it seemed to her that he hadn't.

She decided to check on his laptop for more convenience. She focused her gaze on the device on the desk, and it rose in the air as if two invisible hands had to get it. Then the computer approached with moderate speed towards her, crossing the room with total normality. Matilda hoped there really wasn't a hidden camera inside that room, or that recording might end up on some unsolved mystery channel on YouTube.

Matilda sat on the bed, and the laptop landed delicately in front of her. She opened it, and a few minutes later, she was checking her inbox from last week. She had several emails, but none even remotely related to Doug and his case.

She rechecked his call log; there was no missed call, nor from the cell phone had he spoken to, nor of any other.

Matilda felt at that moment a rather strange sensation throughout her body; something similar to worry. But why? Just because a person with whom she had not spoken for a couple of years and who sadly still could not put a clear face on her mind, hadn't sent an email or contacted again in a week? There were many explanations for this. Perhaps he had felt some reluctance to want to help him, which was not precisely false. Maybe he passed the case to someone else, or maybe he found another expert who could help him. But none of those explanations relieved that feeling of concern and... Guilt? Did she feel guilty?

She thought a little, hugging her legs, and having her eyes focused on her computer screen, with her inbox open. She tried to remember a little about what Doug had told her about his complicated case.

 _But at this moment, I have a somewhat complicated case,_ he had said. _It is about a girl whom her parents tried to burn alive in her oven. Maybe you heard about the incident in newspapers or social networks. There was much echo because of the horrible act._

It definitely sounded like something that would make a stir, although she personally hadn't heard anything. She decided to do a quick search about it, and it didn't take long to skip the results with news and articles. The first two pages she opened were mostly summaries, not much more than Doug's own description of the case, except for one fact: the names of the parents and the girl.

The parents were Edward and Margaret Sullivan, who at that time were admitted to a mental institution. The girl's name, meanwhile, was...

"Lilith Sullivan," Matilda read in a low voice without intending to. It seemed a curious name, but not strange. In spite of the direct or indirect biblical relationship that anyone could do, it was still a pretty name in its own way.

She kept searching and opening links until she could find some pictures of Lilith or at least more information about her. Because she was a minor and the care they had with her privacy, Matilda was a little surprised even to have found her name. Finding its location, or at least one photograph could become complicated... but in the end, she found the latter.

It was an article, from a few days after the incident, who talks a little more extensively about the case, although it was slightly used as a basis to be able to elaborate speech about child abuse in general, that was still occurring in the United States. The case of Lilith Sullivan, although in the text they referred to her more as _Lily_ , was the main headline, accompanied by a photograph of a girl of about ten-years-old, with a sharp face, small eyes of a grayish blue, and dark brown hair, straight and held in a ponytail. She wore a discreet red sweater. It looked like a yearbook photograph because the photo basically covered half of her chest to the tip of her head. She looked at the camera, her body slightly side face, with a studio background, and a small smile on her thin pink lips.

Matilda looked carefully at the picture. She was a pretty girl, primarily because of her striking and penetrating eyes. Anyone who saw that picture would surely take it as a totally normal girl, a victim of her deranged parents, or an innocent soul who had the bad luck of being born in a home so dysfunctional and broken. Matilda herself had had that feeling since Doug told her about it, or while checking all the links she had opened. However, seeing that picture, seeing that look, that smile... something seemed wrong. Matilda did not know what it was exactly, but simply, after seeing that face, she felt that something did not fit, that it was not right.

What could it mean? Quite a few things, it seemed to her.

She thought about touching the image on the screen and seeing if she received any kind of information flash. At first, she hesitated, but in the end, she approached her fingers, until they were placed on the surface of the screen. Not every time it gave results, and she had never tried touching something on a screen. Luckily, it worked... but a part of her would have wished it weren't.

Suddenly, she felt as she ran out of the air, and a horrible pain flooded her chest as if someone had forced his hand and pressed her organs between his fingers. A series of awful images ran through her mind one after the other, without any order or logic. These images were accompanied by sounds that sounded with direct intensity in her head; most of them were incompressible, but they seemed to be... screams of despair.

But more than the images, more than the screams, the most overwhelming were the sensations that ran through her body: fear, terror, confusion, anger, despair, desolation... agony.

She pushed herself away from the laptop, stood up from the bed, and kept backing up without realizing it until her back was against the wall; and yet then she wanted to move further away from that picture. She then went to the bathroom, leaning over the sink, feeling so dizzy and unsettled that she thought she would vomit; luckily, it was not so. She suffered the attack of a pair of arcades, but everything remained in.

When she finally got her breath back, she sat on the closed toilet and rested her face against her hands. She could feel her heartbeat rumbling in her head.

She had never felt anything like that; did not believe that her almost scarce and intermittent clairvoyance, which she barely became aware of during her puberty, could produce such a flash of images and sensations. She didn't know what it meant, but she was sure of one thing. It was like an intrusive thought that flashed in the depths of her mind, and it had taken root firmly there: that girl is dangerous.

Matilda got up again and went to her phone on the bed. She looked for Doug's number and dialed it, but there was no answer. She scored a total of three times, and the result was the same: it jumped straight into voicemail.

"Damn!" She let out frustrated. Without realizing it, she had started to walk around the room in circles.

She quickly thought of some alternative. Search him online or on Facebook? Where else could she find it? She remembered what he had said about his work as a child psychologist in Family Affairs. Would it work if she called him there? She wasn't even sure he worked directly there or anywhere else. But still had nothing to lose. She knew she had little chance of finding him there, but she felt desperate; that intrusive thought did not leave her alone.

The doctor hurriedly searched the number of that office in Portland. She dialed the number, and after hearing the menu options two laps, she chose the option to request information from an operator. She waited a few minutes, accompanied by a sticky melody before someone finally answered her.

"Department of Social & Family Affairs," the voice of a young girl exclaimed solemnly.

"Hello, goodnight," Matilda said in turn, trying to sound as calm as possible. "I know it's a bit late, but I need to communicate with Doug Ames. I think he works there as a child psychologist. Will he be there, or do you know how I can communicate with him?"

There was silence on the other side, a silence that lasted too long from the perspective of the young psychiatrist.

"Hello?" She exclaimed after waiting patiently, fearing that perhaps the call had been cut. But it was not like that. A little later, she heard her falter.

"One moment please," the woman on the phone said at last, and immediately the waiting tune returned, long before Matilda could even thank her.

That seemed strange to her, and it was of no help to appease the concern that flooded her chest. She kept waiting, now even longer than before. She walked with her bare feet for the carpet in the room, wondering how difficult it was to communicate with someone, or just tell her that the person she was looking for is gone.

When she was already getting fed up with the waiting tune, it was cut again, and once again a female voice attended, although it was not the same as before.

"Hello? Who is?"

Matilda broke loose a little but tried to respond quickly.

"Hello, my name is Matilda Honey. I was looking for Doug Ames."

There was an instant of doubt from the other woman.

"For what matter, if I may ask?"

"We were classmates in the Doctorate. A few days ago, he called me to ask for an opinion on a case, but he hasn't communicated with me again. I'm dialing to his cell phone, but he doesn't answer me."

"Some days ago?" the woman questioned interrogatively.

"Yes, like a week ago. Is there where he works or do I have to call somewhere else?"

Again silence, followed by small hesitations that left the young woman quite confused.

"I... I'm sorry," the woman said dubiously on the phone, "but Doug... He died just a week ago."

Matilda's feet were planted dry in place, and her breathing cut off suddenly. She needed too much self-control not to drop her phone from her hand.

"What?!" She snapped dumbfounded. "What are you talking about? That can't be true."

"It was sudden, I think an accident in his bathroom last Tuesday."

"On Tuesday? No, no, Tuesday was when he called me. What happened?"

"I don't have the details, I'm sorry. All the children he treated were passed to another psychologist. Maybe I can give you her information if you like..."

"Hold on a second," she snapped, forcing the woman to shut up. Matilda separated her phone from her ear and stared thoughtfully at the red curtains on the wall. She needed only a second to calm down. She had just come out of her previous impact, and now she was hit again without warning.

Dead? Was Doug dead? How had it happened? The feeling of disgust in his mouth and pain in his stomach returned again, but this time, she managed to control them. She breathed slowly and counted to ten; the lights jingle a little at that moment, but she hoped it was just coincidence.

She must think quickly, make that _beautiful brain_ works. She tried to remember the conversation that she and Doug had step by step.

"And I'm not saying that girl is involved, but the social worker who is in charge of her is a good friend, and I think she also senses something strange after what happened."

The social worker, perhaps she knew more than Doug had told her. Matilda put her cell phone back in her ear and exclaimed:

"Can you transfer me to Social Work... or wherever the social workers who are dealing with Doug's cases were?"

"The social workers?" "The woman answered, confused.

"Yes, I need to talk with the social worker about Doug's case that he wanted to consult me. Can you contact me or should I call another number?"

"I'll see what I can do... Wait."

Again the tedious waiting music, but Matilda barely noticed it on that occasion. She took that pause to clarify her ideas a bit. She still had a hard time believing that really a person she had just talked to a few days ago was now dead, and out of nowhere. It was inevitable for her to think in Carrie White again... In that awful night...

But she couldn't let her mind wander about it; she needed to focus on the present. Was that the horrible feeling she had just meant? No, what she had felt was something much worse, if the sudden death of a person was no terrible enough. Besides, she couldn't avoid the most important thing: she had felt it when she touched Lilith Sullivan's picture. All that could not be a coincidence...

The most obvious answer would also be the most worrying...

"Hello, Adrian Wayne speaks," a deep, now masculine voice, suddenly sounded on the line and making her react at the same time.

"Hello, I am looking for the social worker who took the case of the girl that her parents wanted to burn in their oven."

"Excuse me?" The man exclaimed between confused and annoyed, perhaps because of her subtle description.

"The case of the girl who wanted to burn in an oven, Lilith Sullivan. Do you know it or not?"

"Yes, I do, Miss." His tone became quite defensive. "If you are a reporter, I advise you in advance that…"

"No, I'm not a reporter. I need to talk to who takes that case; it is urgent."

The man who had introduced himself as Adrian Wayne was silent for a few moments. It seemed to Matilda that he was trying to determine if what she was saying was true or not.

"The social worker in charge of that case has retired for today," he finally informed her.

"Damn," Matilda let out by mere reflex, without realizing it. "Can you give me her mobile or home number?"

"Sorry, but I can't give you that information, especially if I don't even know who you are."

"Didn't you hear the urgent part ?!" Matilda exclaimed forcefully, fueled primarily by frustration and the great mixture of emotions that enveloped her. Adrian Wayne, apparently, did not take this very well.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't help you. If you like to communicate tomorrow, you can do it. Goodnight…"

"Hold on please!" The psychiatrist said quickly before he cut. Luckily, he listened and stayed. Matilda took the opportunity to take a deep breath and calm down. "Sorry, I am upset. Let me start over: I'm Dr. Matilda Honey, I'm a psychiatrist and colleague of Doug Ames. Did you know him?" Wayne did not answer anything, but by his silence, Matilda sensed that the answer was a _yes_. "He called me a few days ago, just before he died. He wanted to ask me for help on this case, about the girl in this incident. I just found out about his death, and I need to talk with the social worker who took care of the girl. It's imperative. Can you help me?"

It seemed to have been too much for Mr. Wayne because he failed to respond immediately; again, most likely, he was trying to determine whether or not to believe in what she was saying.

"I… the most I can do is pass on your message so she can contact you as soon as she can."

Matilda sighed, frustrated, and resigned.

"Yes, all right. I will give you my number. Tell her that I'm Dr. Matilda Honey, Doug's colleague. That called me immediately, please."

After providing him with her cell phone number, and a final farewell word, they hung up. Matilda sat for a few moments on the bed and covered her forehead and eyes with his fingers. That was definitely not her day. She wanted to throw herself to bed and just rest, but she couldn't do it; not yet, because she had two, or maybe three, calls more to do.

She didn't know what was happening, but she would find out.

The first of her calls go to Cody, but no longer with the same intention she had initially. She searched again for his number in the register and dialed it. This time, the middle school teacher did answer.

"Hello?" She heard the young man's soft voice slowly murmur.

"Cody, hello. Sorry to call you so suddenly, are you busy?"

"Matilda? No, I was just…" He hesitated a little as if trying to find the right excuse; perhaps she had interrupted him at some delicate moment. "What happens? You hear altered."

And it wasn't just how she was heard: she was really altered. But it wasn't time for it.

"Listen, I know this is very sudden and without warning, but I need to ask you a favor. Could you accompany me to Portland early tomorrow?"

"To Portland?" Cody became notoriously confused. "I thought the girl you were treating was near Salem."

"It's about something else. It's long to explain, I'll tell you better when we meet. But there is another girl who was being treated by a colleague of mine, and he is now dead." She surprised herself when she realized the coldness with which she had said that last, but also sensed that it had altered Cody. "He thought the girl could have an Antisocial Personality Disorder."

"So she is a psycho girl?"

"Something like that... But I think it could be something else."

Cody thought for a few seconds.

"Something else like our specialty?"

"Exactly."

It was the theory that made the most sense to her. For some reason, Dr. Armstrong had suggested Doug talk to her, and for some reason, she had felt that horrible feeling when she touched the photo. But of course, all that was circumstantial, and more a sense than anything else. She hoped that maybe Dr. Armstrong could give her a little more light on what Doug told him; that was just the call she would make after that one.

"Maybe it's nothing, but if it's something and I don't know what, I could need some support. I know it's too much to ask and you should miss your classes. If you can't…"

"No, no, don't worry," Cody answered without a doubt. "I'll be there. Where do we meet?"

Matilda sighed in relief; she could definitely use his support. Not only by his knowledge and his unique Shining but also because of his support as a friend, because in those moments, she felt that she was not able to support herself.

After agreeing on a place and an hour, Matilda left him to finish what he was doing, and also made the preparations he would take to make the trip tomorrow. She, on the other hand, had another call to make.

It must have been after eleven in New Haven, and Dr. Taddeo Armstrong was an older man. Most likely, she would catch him asleep, but she needed to speak with him urgently. The phone rang for a long time, so more that she thought it would end up being cut. But it remained until at last a husky and sleepy voice was present.

"Hello? Matilda?" He exclaimed slowly, then followed by a deep and long yawn.

"Hello, Dr. Armstrong. I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" Silly question, but it had escaped from her lips alone, without her intention.

"No, no. I was just reading," the professor explained himself, just before releasing another yawn, although shorter than the previous one. "What can I do for you, dear? Something happens?"

He spoke to her quite naturally, even though they had not spoken directly in a couple of years. Some people are like that, the psychiatrist thought; although not all shine like Dr. Armstrong.

"I need to talk to you about something. Doug Ames of the Doctorate spoke to me a few days ago. He told me that he contacted you and asked for advice, and you recommended him to talk to me."

"Yes, I did. Was it wrong?"

"No, of course not. But... I just found out that Doug passed away; the same day that he talked to me."

Matilda could feel the man's breathing on the line cut off, and any trace of sleep he had on him simply vanished. Matilda had many questions in mind that she wanted to ask him, about what he talked with Doug, about why he recommended him talking to her, or anything that could give some light on that situation that had suddenly fallen on her shoulders without warning. However, the next thing that came out of Armstrong's mouth was so horrible enough, straightforward and clear, that Matilda's blood freezes, and convinces her, even more, to make that trip the next day:

"That girl did it, right?" He inquired gravely, but with noticeable alertness in his voice.

 **END OF CHAPTER 10**

 **Author's Notes:**

 _- **Jennifer Honey** is based entirely on the respective character of the **1996** movie, Matilda. More details about her will be given later._

 _- **Adrian Wayne** is based on **Wayne's** character from the **2009** film **Case 39**. In that movie, his full name is never mentioned, so the name of "Adrian" is an aggregate from me. Also, more details about him will be given later._


	11. 11 Bye-bye, Emily (Part 1)

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 11  
** **Bye-bye, Emily**

Emily Jenkins did not have a happy childhood. Her mother was a woman with problems; serious problems, to which she used to drag her daughter, conscious or unconsciously. Personality disorders, chronic depression, abuse of inappropriate substances, hormonal imbalances, and many other terms. People wanted to justify her behavior with a thousand and one different reasons, but none was enough to forgive all the damage she done. Even in those moments, close to her forties, every time Emily looked back, she could only feel anger and resentment for that woman, repeating herself that she was much better away from her. She could see it already with her mature and forged mind based on experiences. But, at that time, her perception was far from clear.

Before reaching adolescence, she was removed from that environment and entered to the system. She remembered herself crying every night of the following weeks, longing to return with her beloved mommy. How far a mother have to hurt a child before it stopped seeing her with adoration that almost touched the devotion? Even after so many years, Emily didn't have a clear answer to that.

She moved from one temporary and adoptive home to another, without any being as she wished. When she reached the age of majority and could become independent, she told herself that she would do everything possible to prevent other children from going through the same situation as her, and that was what led her to dedicate to social work; work that at times could become painful and distressing, but had carried out for almost twenty years with pride and enthusiasm... until that little girl came into her life.

Everything started in such a casual way, with Wayne, her supervisor, placing a file on her desk, even after she telling him that she had other thirty-eight open cases. It was the case of a little ten-year-old girl named Lilith Sullivan aka _Lily_. Her teachers had reported she often slept in the classroom, her grades had dropped, and she was more withdrawn in class and on breaks. After her long, and nothing desirable, experience in family cases, Emily had learned very well that all these things were clear signs of problems at home; and when she visited the Sullivan's for the first time, she was pretty sure about that.

A dense air of fear and anger covered the house. Her parents, especially the mother, looked like two zombies, with lost expressions that hid a dark ocean behind them. And Lily… she was such a beautiful girl, so radiant, and yet so delicate in appearance. She looked like a little doll with a sad face, which could break at the slightest touch.

Emily always felt a special appreciation for every boy or girl she met. However, Lily had something special. As soon as she saw her, she felt a great empathy that had never felt before, and an intense need to protect her from whatever was happening in that horrible house.

And all her suspicions and fears came true that horrible night. The news circulated throughout Oregon, and perhaps throughout the country. Her parents tried to kill her, and in the cruelest way: sleeping her and burning her alive in the oven.

What twisted minds could do such atrocity to another human being? Especially to their daughter. If it wasn't for Emily herself and her police friend, Detective Mike Barron, who knows what would have happened. But they managed to save her, and send the parents to a mental sanitarium where they could never see the light of day again.

But the important thing now was Lily, her safety and her well-being. That prevailing need of Emily to protect her became even more acute after what happened. When she had to leave her in that orphanage where she would wait for some adoptive home to be found, if they were able to find any, she saw herself; alone in that place, crying for her mother despite what she had done.

Why did this happen to her? Why was she feeling this so deep for a girl she had just met? What was unique about her compared to all her previous cases? Emily had no idea, nor did she question it much. Despite a small initial resistance, she decided to do something she would never have done with any of her other cases: serve as a temporary home for Lily.

Emily never considered having children. She always used her work as an excuse, but she knew that there was much more involved; much more than she was willing to talk, even with her friend Doug Ames, a child psychologist who worked in Family Affairs treating children with problems, and that almost always was not entirely subtle in their intentions that they were more than friends; however, Emily still rejected him, every time.

That life was not for her; her mother had taken care to show it. But with Lily was different. She thought that both could keep company each other, and could even heal the wounds. And if everything went well, if she could do this and end up compliant... well, who knows? The possibilities were many. Maybe it wasn't too late for her.

When she informed Lily about it, the kid's face lit up like the sun. Emily had never candidly perceived the joy of a child as at that time. She took her to house, prepared a room for her, and little by little they adapted to each other.

Everything was going great. Lily was an extraordinary girl, and every day, Emily convinced herself that her actions had been correct. But time would be in charge of showing her that she had never made such a massive mistake in her entire life.

It took time to realize, but once the signals began to appear, they did not stop. One strange fact after another, a suspicious look, a distant whisper, and a dreadful death...

That girl wasn't even remotely what she looked like: she was a monster. And not figuratively, but rather literally; something nonhuman, something scary, creeping and disgusting was inside her. A demon with innocent girl's look, who had dragged her parents to the absolute madness, leaving them in a state in which they could not do anything beyond drug her, sleep her, put her in the oven and cook her until incinerated live. And although at that time, Emily had placed on the side of those who branded them as lunatics, deranged and sicks, now she shared the same anguish and knew that she would have done the same.

First, another child in her care and one of Doug's therapy groups murdered his parents in the middle of the night, for no reason, and horrifyingly and violently. And somehow, that in those days it was still difficult to understand, Lily was behind it.

Something weird was happening around her, and Doug noticed it too. After talking face to face with her one night, the psychologist told it to her directly: he was afraid of Lily. There was something about her that frightened him, as she had never seen. Doug didn't say much more, except he would call an expert who could help them. After that, he disappeared behind the elevator doors, and it would be the last time Emily would see him alive. They would find him a day later, dead in his bathroom, alone...

 _"An accident,"_ everyone said. _"He must have slipped and rotated his neck when he hit the toilet,"_ added others. _"What a horrible way to die,"_ would rumble as the final closure. But Emily knew it, at the bottom of her heart, she began to see it: Lily had done it. She didn't know how, but she knew the girl was behind all that in one way or another. But nobody believed her, and nobody listened to her. It was crazy, and many times it looked like that to herself too. How could such a sweet girl have done something like that? But it wasn't a girl, and it wasn't anything sweet in her. It took time to digest that idea entirely, but in the end, she succeeded.

Emily saw the tapes of the interviews that the doctors were doing to the parents in the mental sanitarium and spoke in person with Mr. Sullivan. He told her what she feared so much to say out loud: Lily was a demon, a monster that fed on fear and other people's misfortunes. A beast hid behind the face of a girl, to move freely and devour them. These sounded like the strange delusions of an unbalanced man, but Emily knew that what he was saying had to be true. She began to live it in her flesh.

She didn't know how she did it, but somehow the girl could get into your head, manipulate your thoughts and emotions, and make you see your worst nightmare materializing before you. She didn't even have to be in the same room, or even in the same building. Somehow that demon managed to reach you, make you distrust even your own senses, and shore you to the madness. That was how had come to Diego, Doug, and her father. Still locked in the sanitarium, Lily found a way to get to him and make him die in a fight in the dining room, just a few days after talking with Emily. Was it revenge for talking to her? Emily didn't know what to think anymore. Everything was too unreal, too difficult to process.

And now, everything was about to get worse. Nancy, her partner from Adoptions, had just told her that she had gotten an adoptive family for Lily; kind and noble people, willing to open their hearts and their house to the little Lilith. Mr. Sullivan had told her that she fed on the pain and fear of others and enjoyed taking good and pure beings to submerge them in absolute darkness slowly. Emily did not know if he said this with any basis or was merely his own perception. But whatever it was, she couldn't allow it; she couldn't let her do that to anyone else.

Her friend, Detective Mike Barron, did not believe her suspects at first, but in the end, he had to accept that something happened with Lily when he was directly subtly threatened by her. He did not say it openly, but she could feel that fear had taken hold of him, a fear so deep and painful, that had undoubtedly pushed him to help her with the horrible but inevitable task they had to do: kill Lily, before someone else get hurt.

Mike would bring a gun from the evidence warehouse, confiscated from some frustrated assault. For her part, she went to her doctor that same morning and told him she couldn't sleep, hoping he could prescribe something, and it worked. Also, she got a gallon of gasoline. The complete plan was to sleep Lily with the pills, shoot once unconscious, and then set fire to the body to disappear it. Sounded horrible, and every time she repeated it in her head, it became even worse. She, who had sworn to dedicate her life to children, to protect and keep them safe, was going to be part of an act that could only be classified as a brutal murder?

But she didn't care anymore. She was desperate.

Emily left work early, claiming not to feel well at all, and headed home. She sat for a while in her vehicle, contemplating the wooden construction from outside, trying to imagine where would be that thing in those moments. The mere idea of returning there with her made her nauseous and pressed her chest. But she must be strong, just a little more. If he could hold on a little longer, it would all end.

She got out of the car and entered through the front door. The lights were on, but everything was silent.

"Lily?" She exclaimed loudly so her voice could be heard, but she received no response. Everything remained silent.

She removed her coat and hung it on her coat rack. Left her bag on the furniture of the hall, and moved to the living room. However, as soon as she turned in the main hall, she spotted something on the floor. At first, she did not know what it was, but when she approached, she realized. They were her files, from all her cases, past and present, watered throughout the corridor, creating a perfect path. Emily didn't know how to react, and a part of her strongly suggested that she must turn around and leave that place immediately. However, she ignored it, and instead began to advance along the path of papers, which led her directly to Lily's room. When she stood in the doorway, she saw something on the floor that stirred her stomach. There were about eight photographs of several children of cases she had had, part of the files that now lay on the floor. The most were of marks of blows on the bodies of children, purple eyes, scratches, bruises, broken lips... all those atrocities, exposed side by side, like a sickly mural.

What the hell was Lily doing with them? Was it causing her some morbid pleasure to see that? Was it what she enjoyed? The pain and suffering of people even if is only in photographs?

But there were more photos that at first glance did not fit the rest. Emily crouched beside them so he could see them better. There was a picture of Diego, the boy who had murdered his parents. He was smiling happily and without any worries. There was also a picture of Doug, in a mood similar to Diego's. And finally, one of Mike and she, taken by Mike's wife on a barbecue at his house.

The presence of that photo among all the others made her lose her breath...

 _"Mike," she_ thought almost horrified. Why had Lily put a picture of two of them along with the others? Why had she put them there, so that she could see them easily? What kind of message or warning, did want to convey? And most importantly: Where was she?

Suddenly, Emily heard a sound, just under her mattress. She approached cautiously and lifted the mattress. Under it, on the base of the bed, was a telephone, her lost telephone, ringing in vibrator mode. As if it were something radioactive, Emily nervously reached her hand toward to take it. An unknown number was displayed on the screen. Even more nervous, she answered the call and brought it to her ear. On the other side, there was only a lot of static.

"Who is this?" She murmured scared.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then:

"Emily, it's me, Wayne," she heard her supervisor's recognizable voice ring through the static, and that calmed her slightly, allowing her to breathe.

"Wayne? Is everything ok?"

"No," he replied slowly, slamming away all the tranquility that had come to her. "I just got a call a few minutes ago. It's about Mike. Emily... he is dead."

That last words resonated with great force in her head and was repeated so many times until these totally lost their sense.

"What? No, he is..."

She was unable to say much more.

"I don't know the details," Wayne continued on the phone, "but they say he shot himself in the headquarters parking lot."

Did he shot himself? Did Mike kill himself? No, it was impossible, of course, he hadn't. He would never do it, especially when he was about to help her with such a horrible task. It had been her; she had done it as she did with Doug, Edward Sullivan, and so many more before them.

"Emily? Em?" Wayne repeated on the phone, but she no longer listened. "Emily, are you alright?" There was no answer. Emily pushed her phone from her ear and began to lower it little by little. "Emily, there is something else. I don't know if it's related or not, but a few hours ago someone..."

She no longer heard the rest of his words.

But suddenly, she heard the clear sound of the microwave in the kitchen, indicating that it had just finished a cycle, and shortly after the distant sound of steps and movement.

It was her...

"Emily? Emily, are you ok...?"

She dropped the phone to the floor, not caring what else Wayne wanted to tell her. She went from confusion to denial, from this to sadness, to quickly get rid of all this and keep only one thing: an absolute rage.

In a hurry, she stood up and walked swiftly and determinedly to the living room. Before arriving at her destination, she heard how the television was turned on, and the loud melody of a music video broke such absolute silence. And there she was, sitting quietly on the couch in front of the television, and a large bowl of popcorns on her legs. There was Lily Sullivan, with her calm face, and her gray eyes fixed on the screen, while she popped the popcorns one at a time into her mouth. She wore his long dark brown hair, perfectly straight, loose and falling on her shoulders. She looked so innocent, so calm... so fake.

Without the slightest doubt, Emily took the screen placed on the living room furniture, and threw it hard on the floor, causing it to drop flashes when falling, accompanied by a painful crunch. The house was silent again. Lily watched the television on the floor, unchanging. She took another popcorn and brought it to her mouth.

"Didn't your mother teach you to take better care of your things?" Lily whispered in a sarcastic and mocking tone.

Emily was breathing agitated. To see her sitting there with her face of false innocence as if nothing happened as if it were remotely something similar to a human being. She raised her hand slowly, pointing toward the door decisively. Her anger was such that she was barely able to structure words.

"Get out... of my... home..." She exclaimed as she could, almost choking on every word. Lily, on her side, looked at her for a second and then continued eating as if she hadn't heard.

"Do we have butter?" The kid asked quietly, ignoring her desperate request.

Emily approached her violently, and with a swipe, she threw the popcorn bowl to one side, watering them all over the chair and the floor.

"Get out of my house, damn monster!" She yelled at her now with much more strength and security, pointing back to the door.

Lily looked at her sideways, still serene. Delicately, she began to shake the popcorn from the armchair and her jeans, as if cleaning simple dust.

"I think there's a confusion here," Lily murmured unchanging as she kept cleaning. Then she stopped suddenly and stared at her with a look that completely broke all that innocent and calm expression she had had all that time. "You... no... Yell at me!"

The voice that came out of her didn't look anything like hers. It was severe and resonated in her head like a hammer clash. In fact, it sounded like several voices talking at once with violence, with hate, with a feeling so aggressive that it paralyzed Emily. There was no way that a human being could even emit those sounds.

Lily began to move toward her slowly, and Emily instinctively backed away, panicked. Lily's face gradually began to deform, to transmute into something grotesque, gray skin, and wide, deep and dark eyes.

"You don't give me orders," she continued in the same voice. With each step she took, Emily seemed to perceive that the entire stage around her was warping and contracting with each other, shuddering at the tone of the words she heard coming from Lily. "You don't tell me what to do, you can't scold me when I haven't done anything, and you don't plan on stabbing me in the back while I don't see you!"

That mad voice grew suddenly, and Emily felt as if all the walls were cracking and contracting on her.

"It's not real... it's not real..." She repeated herself, unable to believe it.

When she got her legs to respond as she wished, she turned and began to dash down the hall, feeling like a harmless prey escaping from its predator. She reached her room, and immediately locked herself in it, not only with insurance but also with the pins she had installed days before, precisely to keep that thing out. But in those moments, all this seemed insufficient. She pushed her dresser in a hurry until she placed it in front of the door, and followed her bed a little later, creating a complete barricade. But what then? What would she do after that? Now she was trapped in her own room.

She looked around altered, looking for a way out, a hiding place, a weapon or whatever. Her feet suddenly rolled a long screwdriver that was on the ground, which had perhaps remained there since she was putting the pins. It was practically nothing, but she still took it in her hands and held it close to her as a weapon.

Lily's bony knuckles knocked loudly on the door, breaking the silence.

"Emily, I'm sorry," she heard suddenly, again that fake sweet voice, uttering from the other side of the door. The social worker immediately became defensive, taking the screwdriver in front of her. "I didn't mean to. Can I come in so we can talk and work it out?" Emily didn't answer anything, so she knocked harder. "Emily?"

"Stay away from me!" The social worker shouted desperately.

"Don't be mad. I said I was sorry. Come on; I'll brush your hair for you."

"Stay away from me!"

Once the echo of his last shout dissipated from her ears, everything was silent. But not by much. After a few seconds, before Emily could react or think of something else, the loud sound of the wood creaking shook her. The door of the room began to bend and tear as if a colossal animal violently pushed it in with great force. Emily took a couple of steps back, her fingers clinging to the screwdriver until they turned pale.

"It's not real," she said again in a small voice. "It is not real. It is not real!"

She threw the screwdriver and dashed toward the barricade, pushing it with her whole body. However, the blows from outside were stronger. The door finally gave way, breaking apart, and her bed and dresser were pushed back, as well as herself. She fell on the floor and managed to see how the door flew out, ripped from its hinges. Emily immediately crawled down the floor under the bed, hiding under it, in the darkest corner of that area. She clung to herself, covering her face with both arms, and sticking her knees against her chest.

That was a nightmare; it was the only thing that made sense. It was all a horrible nightmare in which she would wake up at any moment. Doug and Mike would be there, and nothing that happened those weeks would be real. She tried to hold that idea, but that deformed voice sounding like several at once pulled her back to the undeniable reality.

"Emily?" Lily said while she entered the room. Emily lifted her face slightly from the hiding place of her arms and could see her bare feet, moving along the floor to the side of the bed. "We need to learn healthier ways of resolving conflicts. Most families don't even know they have a problem... until it's too late..."

As she followed the walk of her feet with her eyes, Emily noticed that the screwdriver was right next to the bed. Lily's thin right hand went down to take the screwdriver and then stuck it hard on the floor. It made Emily let out a little cry of fear.

Lily bent down and put her face below to the bottom of the bed. She looked at Emily with her blue-gray eyes and smiled at her broadly, with the same joy with which she had greeted that day when Emily told her she would go home with her.

"What are you doing there, you silly pumpkinhead?" Lily inquired in a cheerful, playful tone. Emily could only laugh nervously in panic. "You don't want me to come under there and get you, do you?"

"No, no…"

"I'm going to count to three. One... two..." While Lily was counting, Emily muttered inaudible pleas; the terror was such that she was no longer able to think with even a minimum of clarity. "Two and a half... two and three quarters... three! Here I come…"

Lily began to crawl on the floor toward her, like a snake stalking.

"No!" Emily shouted, terrified, and dragged her body back until it was against the wall; now, she was cornered. "What do you want from me?!"

Lily stopped right in front of her, having her face at the same height. The kid looked at her carefully in that position, and then her expression became something serious, and sad.

"I want the same thing you wanted from your mother. I want you to love me..."

Love her? Who could love a being like her? Who could feel anything more than terror and hate against someone who uses, manipulates, and destroys how many people cross her path? Did she at least understand its meaning?

"It's ok..." Emily murmured, dragging the words a little. "Yes... I will; I will; I will..."

Lily smiled happily. She leaned toward her, and Emily's immediate reflection was to close her eyes in fright and only felt how she gave her a simple kiss on her forehead. Then she heard the girl crawl back out of bed.

"Come to tuck me in," heard her say once she was outside.

Emily stayed petrified in her place for a long time, and when she opened her eyes, there was no trace of Lily. However, something else was not right. Slowly, she came out from under the bed and stood on her feet. She looked around dumbfounded, unable to believe the shocking image she saw: everything was the same as it was a few minutes ago. The door was still in place, the dresser and the bed, under which she had just left, were still against the door. Even the screwdriver was on the floor at her feet, and not stuck in the wood. There was no sign of Lily or yet a sign that she had entered at some point.

What had happened? Had she played with her mind again? Had it all been a mere illusion? But it was so real. She felt the blow that threw her back, the feel of her lips on her forehead, even the scent of her shampoo. She was there... or not? Emily took her head, feeling that the whole world was spinning. The walls, the doors, the barricades, nothing could stop her. Just by thinking it, she could enter wherever she wanted and do whatever she wished. There was no way to contain her either.

Emily left her room and headed to the kitchen automatically as if she were some robot without consciousness. She began to prepare chamomile tea, prompted perhaps by her own habit since she frequently made one for Lily before bedtime. Emily stood for a long time, admiring the kettle on the stove, waiting for it to sound. And it was at that moment that a fleeting thought came to her, a second before the hiss of boiling water became present. She turned slowly toward the entrance, where she had left her bag.

 _"The pills," she_ thought to herself. The sleeping pills that the doctor had given her. She could still use them as she had planned, put them in the tea to sleep her, and... And then what? What would she do next? She didn't question it much and just did it. She sneaked up to the entrance, begging God or anyone who was listening to her not to cross Lily halfway. There was no sign of her, and Emily even heard her singing in her room, surely while brushing her hair in front of the dressing table mirror as she used to do. Emily took four pills out of the bag and carried them hidden in her fist to the kitchen. Once there, she ground them with a spoon to make them into powder and threw it into the porcelain cup, followed by the tea bag, and then the hot water. It stirred the water very well, until making sure that there was no visible trace of the presence of the pills, and only the opaque color of the tea was distinguished. She also added enough sugar, hoping that it would disguise the taste a bit. She considered to taste it herself to make sure, but she couldn't risk it; the least she could do in those moments was to fall asleep.

Emily took the cup, with a small dish of the same game, to Lily's room. There she found her sitting on her bed, changed to sleep, and with the cover on her legs. When Lily saw her at the door, she smiled with all the false innocence she had transmitted from the beginning. Emily approached the bed and handed the cup, which Lily took gladly. She blew a little to calm the heat of the liquid, and once she was sure brought it to her lips. But before taking the first sip, she lowered it again.

"Maybe you should have it," the kid said softly and turned to see her again. "You look stressed."

Emily had a little moment of doubt but managed to maintain apparent tranquility.

"I'll have one later, don't worry."

Lily nodded and began to drink tea slowly. Emily expected that she told it tasted weird, or maybe too sweet and then began to suspect. But no, Lily kept taking it easy. For that little moment, Emily felt triumphant.

"I'm really sorry that I let things get like this," Emily commented, more calmly. "We'll do better from now on."

"We have to," the little girl replied after taking the last sip, and put the cup back on the small plate, and then passed it back to Emily. "Or someone could get hurt."

Emily only smiled at such a disguised threat. _"And that someone could be you,"_ she thought to herself.

"What should we do tomorrow?" Emily questioned.

Lily thought a little, but in the end, she shrugged.

"Surprise me."

"I'm not so good at surprises."

"You're getting better."

Emily's confident smile almost broke apart. What did she mean with that? Because of the way she said it... No, she couldn't keep letting it get that way in her head. She kept smiling, calm. She placed the cup and plate on the desk for a moment and tucked Lily under the cover. Once she was ready, went to the door to leave, but halfway, she heard the girl speaking with a playful tone, but at the same time quite threatening.

"You forgot my goodnight kiss."

Emily took a deep breath, still turning her back, and then turned back, approached and gave her a little kiss on the forehead.

"Goodnight, pretty."

 _— — — —_

 **Author's Notes:**

 _—_ ** _Chapter 11_** _is too long. So, I decided to divide the translation into **two parts**. I will publish **Part 2** soon._

 _—_ _This whole chapter was a summary of the film **Case 39** of **2009** , adding some personal interpretations and addition that modifies the original ending._ _For the purposes of this story, that film was happening parallel to the rest narrated so far (as Doug's call in **Chapter 07** implied)._ _The following chapters will continue from this point, so these could be considered as a direct sequel of the film, and several references about what happened in it will appear._

 _—_ ** _Emily_** _and **Lily** are the original protagonists of **Case 39** , without any change in their appearance, age, or personality._


	12. 11 Bye-bye, Emily (Part 2)

After an hour, Emily peered very quietly into Lily's room, looking at her in bed. She expected to see her open her eyes at any moment, but it seemed she was peacefully asleep.

It was now or never.

Emily thought about it too much during that hour she was waiting for. She had the opportunity to repent, step back, just run away, and never return. But she couldn't live knowing that girl was still loose somewhere, knowing that no matter how far she went, no matter how safe she felt, she could never really put enough distance and walls between them to effectively keep her away. It was an extreme situation, and that merited an extreme measure.

The social worker took from her vehicle the gasoline she had got to burn the body. She grabbed the handle of Lily's door with a thick rope, tying it tightly to a pillar to prevent it from opening. Also, she placed a chair, a table, and everything she found, in front of the door to create another barricade, but now to prevent it from coming out. Perhaps she could enter wherever she went with her demonic powers or whatever they were, but we would see if she was able to leave as well.

She feared that the noise would end by waking her, but in all that time, everything remained silent; the pills had taken effect. She then began to spray the gasoline throughout the house, placing the main emphasis on the door and the barricade in front of it. She dipped the hall, the walls, and the floor, everything for which the gallon reached. The construction was somewhat old, mostly of wood as they were almost no longer made. Just a little and it would surely burn like a beautiful hell that would make that thing feel like home.

Once the gas ran out, and without the slightest remorse, Emily lit a match and dropped it on the dark trail she had left on the ground. The fuel ignited in a blink of an eye, covering almost immediately all the areas moistened with it, and causing a beautiful bonfire to form in front of Lily's door.

She walked then into the living room and sat on the sofa as if nothing had happened. The flames gradually began to spread, so for anyone, it would not be an appropriate time to stop and meditate on her possibilities, but she did so. And really, what were the options? She was seriously considering staying there and perishing along with the entire house. One way or another that would be the end of everything: her career, her life, her freedom. All the children she had helped, all the families she had protected, all the hard work she had done to pursue her mission... all that would be overshadowed by that act, which however heroic it might sound in her head, the other people would be unable to understand. It would be just another madwoman who had lost her mind, and had dragged an innocent girl into that madness; that is why she would be remembered, and that would be what they would put in their epitaph. By staying there, at least there would be no more questioning, more problems, or the uncomfortable and strenuous need to deal with all that. Everything would end quickly and clean. And if there were a heaven, possibly there they would receive she well. They would even give her a medal, or wings, or whatever they gave to people who sacrificed for doing good.

But then she turned a little to her sense and looked at her big fishbowl and the only dark-colored fish that still swam in it, ignorant of the large flames that surrounded him. Fred, a small gift from Doug, and the single fish she had left to occupy that ample space. She promised herself many times to buy him new friends, but she never did it; she always let it pass. Would it be absurd to want to leave that place just for a fish? Maybe... but it was at least one last living being she could save, before falling into the abyss of being a crazy kid's killer.

Emily took Fred in a smaller fishbowl and left the house before it was impossible to do. She barely placed her feet on the sidewalk, when she heard the painful creak behind her, and the sound of windows breaking through the heat. She advanced a little more, and then stopped in the middle of the street to see how her beloved house, to which she had deposited so much love and dreams, was consumed.

Their neighbors did not take long to see what was happening, and the firemen and the police joined them shortly after. Even with all the commotion, she still didn't move from her place, watching the flames move on to almost completely cover the building. A fireman approached her, and she could see far away that he was speaking to her, but she was unable to understand anything that came from his lips. It was clearer to hear the sound of the creaking wood, and the sirens of the firemen and police officers echoing in the background, than the words of that man in a yellow suit.

"Ma'am, is anyone else inside? Yes or no?" The firefighter repeated, perhaps for the sixth time, and only until then Emily reacted and turned to see him. And when she turned around... there she saw her, among the crowd, a few steps away from her. It was Lily, in a red coat, looking with a smile at the house burning.

Emily's breath cut, and she almost dropped Fred's fishbowl. She said nothing, nor reacted in any way, even when Lily turned to see her back. The fireman moved away, perhaps to support his companions, and at that moment Lily walked calmly towards her, with her hands inside the coat's pockets. She got closer and closer, and with each step, it became more and more real.

"That was mean..." the kid murmured playfully as she passed in front of her, and then stood by her side, holding her hand to watch the show together. Emily, however, totally lost track of time, space, or herself for all the minutes, and later hours, that followed.

How was that possible? She had seen her drinking the tea, had seen her lying on the bed, and had felt her forehead when she kissed her for a good night. She had seen her asleep an hour later, had locked her in the room, and had even stayed there almost until the end. How had that happened? How did she come out and without any scratch?

It took time, but then she understood: she couldn't believe in anything she saw, heard, or felt while she was present. Maybe Lily was never in the room; she never drank the tea or even never was inside the house. She never threw her files on the floor, placed those pictures, maybe Wayne didn't call her, and she never turned on the television or made popcorns. Maybe all that time the girl was just out there, standing watching the house, laughing at her, and enjoying how she made her crazier. Emily could have passed in front of her with the gallon of gasoline in her hand, and not see a single hair of her.

There was no way to know what was real and what wasn't, no more. The reality was what Lily wanted it to be, and no more...

* * *

Emily entrusted Fred to a little girl who lived in two houses of her own, and who had always insisted that she should give it to her when her mother sometimes left her in her care. Lily never liked Fred anyway and hoped that at least she wouldn't do anything to him if she did that.

It was early in the morning when firefighters extinguished the fire. The police took their testimony, one that was quite brief and not much informative. Even so, and although they indirectly suggested that they suspected that someone had caused the fire, she did not detect any indication that they thought it was her. Would Lily have something to do with it? Did she make them see or notice anything that would guarantee they didn't suspect her? And if so, why do it? What interest may she had in her not being arrested? Wasn't she done with her yet? Did she still want to continue torturing her a little more?

It was already impossible for her to distinguish who around her was being manipulated by Lily, and who not.

In the end, the police asked Emily and Lily to wait in the car. They were there alone for half an hour, and although occasionally Lily mentioned something to start a talk, none directly related to what had just happened, Emily never answered, not even half a word. An officer approached them after that half-hour and stood right next to Emily's window. She wished that he asked her to get out of the car, put her hands behind her back, and tell her the classic Miranda Warning while he handcuffs her hands. Just like movies: _"Emily Jenkins, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Have the rights previously mentioned been clear to you? "_

 _"Yes official, stupidly clear._ _Just get me away from that girl, for whatever you want…"_

However, that small and harmless desire was not granted.

"You follow us downtown to the station," the officer said in a friendly tone. "We'll find someplace for you to stay, don't worry."

Emily didn't answer anything, despite having heard it very well. She was still, with her hands fixed on the steering wheel, and staring straight ahead.

"Miss? You okay?" The officer spoke to her again, but Emily was still staring straight ahead, blank. Lily looked at her, confused, from the passenger seat.

The cop was going to speak to her again, but Emily managed to react earlier than that.

"I'm fine," she muttered abruptly. "Thanks, officer."

The policeman returned to his patrol and started the march. Emily drove behind them, almost automatically, totally gone.

That was all, right? That had been the purpose of all that, wasn't it? Show her how useless it was even thinking about doing something against that monster; show her that she would always be one step ahead. There was nothing left but to surrender, to become another living zombie-like, just as the Sullivan's, to survive day after day waiting for the moment when she would no longer be useful or fun, like an old toy. She will be longing for even a second in which the kid got distracted enough, so she could stab her neck from behind; a second that could never come.

"Maybe we can find a hotel with a swimming pool," Lily commented once they were already on the highway. She looked out the window thoughtfully. When she received no response from the driver, she turned to see her again. "Don't be scared, Emily. My mother said that when God closes a door, He opens a window."

God? Was she really talking about God...?

"I already told you, remember? This is a new opportunity to start over. A better life, in a better place. Maybe in Miami."

And then Emily remembered the adoptive family, the one with whom Nancy planned to take her that Friday. What would happen, then? Would she no longer be necessary? Would she go and leave her alone? Or did she plan to stay with her for longer? And if it was that last... what did she plan to do to achieve such a thing?

A new conviction invaded her. She still couldn't give up; there was still one last opportunity.

Emily quickly turned the steering wheel, abruptly taking an exit, and completely deviating from the police patrols' route.

"Where are we going?" Asked Lily, surprised.

"You said I should surprise you," Emily replied sharply without taking her eyes off the road.

Lily smiled calmly, staring at her from her seat.

"I know what you're thinking, but it won't work. So it would be better to go to the station as those kind cops requested you."

Emily did not answer.

Lily then raised her feet to the seat and hugged her legs against her while still looking at her.

"She hated herself, and she hated you," Lily snapped suddenly, and that made a fissure in Emily's armor. "They said it was an accident, but you knew it wasn't. That's why you never had any kids of your own."

Emily turned suddenly to her, stunned by what she heard. The kid smiled satisfied.

"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? That part of you that's her; that is like your mother. Are you going to do the same thing she did to you?"

How did she know she was thinking about her mother? How did she know what happened at that time? Did she investigate it? Did she find out? Or had just read her mind?

"What are you?" Emily questioned with horror. Lily simply smiled even more, and looked out the window again, but then Emily slammed on the accelerator, causing the car to quicken in a second. The girl's body stuck for a moment against her seat.

"Slow down," Lily whispered, more like an order than a suggestion.

"What the hell are you?!"

"You're upset, you shouldn't be driving in that state."

Upset? She was going to show her how upset she was. She stepped the accelerator deeper and began to zigzag fiercely, dodging the vehicles. Lily's eyes widened in amazement, though not too much.

"Is this how you want things to be?" the kid whispered with notorious tranquility. A sudden rain began to fall; Emily was so distracted that she didn't even wonder if the sky was cloudy or not, she only activated windshield wipers so she could see on her way. "As you want. Apparently, you're more like her than you thought..."

That single mention caused Emily to divert her attention a second from the road to the passenger seat... which was completely empty.

"What?" She murmured stunned. Where had she gone? Or... Maybe she was never there? No, yes, she was. She was playing with her mind again, confusing her with...

"Mom!" Emily heard a voice scream loudly, the voice of a girl, but it wasn't Lily's. It came from the back seat of the vehicle. "Mom, slow down! You're scaring me. Go slowly, please!"

She glanced through the rearview mirror towards the back of the vehicle... and what he saw froze her blood. There was a girl with a round face and long blond hair, looking dead in fear to front, with her eyes on the edge of tears. She recognized that girl, knew who she was. She was herself, sitting in the back seat of her mother's vehicle, while she was behind the wheel. And when she turned the mirror to her, she saw her mother's eyes, loaded with makeup and the same carelessness, looking at her through the reflection.

The memory was materializing before her. That day, when her mother completely lost control and began driving as deranged by a highway quite similar to that. She didn't care if Emily was in the backseat: she wanted to die. And now there she was repeating the same act.

The idea paralyzed her for a few seconds. She kept driving as she could, until a truck appeared on the road, a big truck with the lights on, lighting up their faces. Everything was like that day. She could remember it in great detail. The lights approaching, the sound of the truck's horn warning of the impending head-on crash, the sound of rain hitting the windows, and the lost and exorbitant look of her mother, fixed on the target, heading straight to it. Only until the last moment, at an instant of colliding, a small flash of lucidity made her mother turn the steering wheel violently and get them out of reach. They didn't hit the truck but against the retaining wall. The front of the car shattered, the airbags exploded, and Emily felt her small body shake in the inside of the vehicle. She had to wear a collar for several weeks, longer than the time she was on her mother's side after that.

Would she do the same? Would she divert at the last minute to dodge the truck? Or would she go straight against it, hoping the crash was enough to kill the creature that accompanied her on board?

"Stop, mom!" Yelled her young version in the backseat.

"It's not real," she told herself softly.

"Yes, it is! Mom!"

"Is not true! It's not real!"

No deviations, no dodging, and no crashes. Emily wouldn't let that demon manipulate her mind any longer. She wouldn't let her make her doubt what was real and what wasn't. She had control of her mind, not she.

Emily treaded thoroughly and headed straight against the truck. In her subconscious, she could hear the metal creak, accompanied by her own bones breaking apart. But neither happened; an instant after the truck lights completely dazzled her, they went through it as placidly as a cloud of smoke, and then it vanished. Not only the truck left, but also the rain; their wipers were moving from one side to another at a constant pace, but they didn't clean anything, because their windshield was totally dry.

Her first reaction was to laugh; it wasn't for relief or for fun, or any emotion that Emily could name at that time. She slowed down the speed a bit and automatically turned off the cleaners to stop moving. Only then did she look back at the seat to her right; Lily was back, or instead never gone. And perhaps for the first time since she met her, she managed to see a real emotion on the kid's face, something that could not be faked, not at that level: terror. Lilith Sullivan was terrified, like a small and helpless girl.

"Are you scared now?" The social worker questioned her, with power in her tone. Lily turned to see her without escaping her condition. "Because I'm not…"

Again, a violent turn of the steering wheel which caused Lily to shake in her seat. Emily stepped on the accelerator once more, and when she thought about it, they had already hit a mesh fence, knocking it down by the impact. They had entered in a dock area on the banks of the Willamette River, the same Willamette River to which she now headed straight and in a tailspin.

"Wait!" Lily yelled, feeling desperate. "Things are not as you think!"

"I don't want to hear anything from you!"

"My parents didn't know what they were saying! I am not a monster or a demon! I'm just a girl! A girl different from the others!"

"Shut up!"

"Don't make a madness like your mother do!"

"I said, shut up!"

"Emily!"

Lily released her seat belt and closed her eyes tightly; that was the last thing Emily saw from her from the corner of her eye, before the vehicle flew through the air for a few seconds, and then rushed into the cold water of the river. The impact against the water was abrupt. Both shook and slammed their heads against the board. Emily was stunned, but in all her confusion, she seemed to see that Lily had been unconscious. The car slowly descended, and the water began to seep into the interior. Maybe she still had a chance.

Emily quickly let go of her seat belt and immediately got out of the vehicle. At that moment, however, she felt Lily's hand take her tightly between her fingers. The girl slowly separated her face from the glove compartment and turned to see her with a look full of evil, and a confident smile. She had a deep cut on his forehead, and from it, a thread of blood gushed down her face.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore," Emily murmured harshly.

"That doesn't matter," Lily replied in turn with a cold tone.

Both began to struggle, and the vehicle swayed from side to side along with their movements. Emily managed to break free of Lily's grip, and then she took her, and with almost superhuman strength that she wasn't even aware she possessed, pushed her toward the back of the vehicle, where the water had leaked the most. She took Lily hard and dipped her with both hands under the water. Lily kicked and shouted, a heartbreaking shriek that once again didn't hear human.

Suddenly, from the water emerged a long arm, thick and white skin, with sharp claws on the fingers, which managed to tear her face. Emily could feel her hands still holding Lily's body underwater, but among all the hustle and bustle she no longer saw her, but the huge body of a white being, with deep black eyes, sharp fangs, no hair or any other easy feature that it could even pretend was a human being.

"It's not real... it's not real..." She repeated herself while still keeping her submerged, despite all her fight.

When the car was almost full of water, she had to release it, and as she could return to her seat and open her door a second before her head was submerged. Emily rushed out of the vehicle and swam with all the forces that still remained to the surface. It was perhaps the most challenging thing she had done in her life, physically speaking. She felt like a force was pulling her down and that her body was not advancing a bit. Her air was running out, but she could see the sunlight, already in those moments outside, seeping through the surface. Emily kept waving her legs and hands, rising while her old vehicle continued to sink, with that horrifying creature inside.

In the last part of her road to the surface, she believed that she would not succeed. That she would run out of energy, faint, and would descend to the bottom of the river as well. And maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. Wasn't she willing to die a few hours ago? Wasn't she prepared to burn herself in her own house? Maybe... But anyway she would make one last attempt, one final push, one last effort; and this one paid off. When her head came out of the water, she took a deep breath, as if it were the first time she did it in her life. She coughed hard, and with both hands removed the wet hair from her face. Then she hurried to the shore and climbing an old somewhat faded staircase.

She was frozen and extremely exhausted. When she reached the end of the stairs, she had to sit on the ground, resisting her impulse to simply throw herself right there. As she could, turned to the water again, watching several bubbles formed on the surface, surely created by the interior air of the vehicle. She stared at these bubbles, waiting at any moment to see Lily emerge, or that demonic creature she had transformed into. But neither happened; the bubbles subsided, and the water stayed once again, calm.

Emily laughed once more; now, it was for relief and happiness. She had won… and just then she was able to believe such a thing. Her breathing and her heartbeat were one thousand per hour. She wanted to cry, to laugh, maybe to run and kiss the first stranger she crossed with. She could hear the sirens approaching in the distance. Surely she would be arrested, or at least interrogated for all that. She would need a good lawyer, who at most could get her to be declared ill of her faculties, and sent to a psychiatric center, as well as the Sullivan's. But it didn't matter, it didn't matter anymore...

"What a nice happy ending," someone suddenly said behind her, leaving her totally petrified, and erasing her smile at once. Slowly, Emily turned and there she saw her, standing a couple of meters from her, completely dry, with her hands hidden in the pockets of her red coat, and a smile from ear to ear in her lips. "Too bad it's a complete lie..."

Any trace of reason, any hint of lucidity that had been left in Emily, became shattered entirely at that moment. She felt that everything around her was torn apart like a mirror, and floated around like thousands of pieces of glass, reflecting the space at different angles. She was not even able to pronounce any word. And, what would she have said in any case? Maybe drop a disbeliever " _What?"_ a desperate " _No!"_ Maybe?

It really didn't matter, it didn't matter anymore...

Emily felt suddenly how a large and strong hand took her right arm. A second was added, taking her from the left, and a third arm circled her neck. She was knocked down without being able to resist the slightest resistance, and her body hit the cold water again.

"No, no!" It was the only thing that was left to speak, but she could hardly hear it. She kicked and waved her arms, trying to stay on the surface, but those strong and long arms still held her, and then they added even more than took her from the legs, from the torso, from the face... she could feel their long fingers all over her body, and her claws tearing her clothes and skin.

With her gaze lost in the already distant shore, Emily managed to see how Lily advanced until she could look at her from above, again with that smile of false innocence.

"I really liked you, Emily," the girl began to murmur sadly, or at least something that tried to resemble it. Despite the distance, Emily could hear her clearly in her head. "You were different from my parents or the other adults I've met. I really thought we could both be happy; have everything we want and go anywhere, without anyone opposing us. And all you had to do was love me, like a real mother. But no, you had to listen to my father and try to be a heroine. And where did that bring you?"

A sharp mocking laugh escaped from her lips, and it echoed even after she fell silent.

"And now... you will sink."

Emily had no chance to pronounce or even think of any last word. All hands pulled her down, plunging her entirely into the water, and into complete and absolute darkness...

* * *

While Emily's mind sank, a group of dockworkers managed to get Lily out of the vehicle, once it hit bottom. The little girl in a red coat was barely conscious; she managed to spit some water and cough, but then fainted, only occasionally opening her eyes. But Emily didn't react. Even when the paramedics arrived and treated her, they failed to make her give any signal of response. However, she was still alive.

They quickly put her on a stretcher with an oxygen mask and a thermal blanket to take away the cold. They did the same with Lily, although luckily she did respond when paramedics spoke to her. The girl managed to look around while they boarded her to the ambulance. The press and the police were already there. The reporters were interviewing the workers who had seen the _"accident"_ and saved them. As it was possible, Lily turned her neck long enough to see the other ambulance, to which they climbed into the unconscious Emily.

The mask on his face might not allow to notice it at all, but she couldn't prevent smile at that moment.

"Bye-bye, Emily..." She murmured coarsely and tiredly. Then, she allowed herself to close her eyes and rest. She slept all the way to the hospital.

 **END OF CHAPTER 11**

 **Author's Notes:**

 _-This whole chapter was a summary of the film **Case 39** of **2009** , adding some personal interpretations and addition that modifies the original ending._ _For the purposes of this story, that film was happening parallel to the rest narrated so far (as Doug's call in **Chapter 07** implied)._ _The following chapters will continue from this point, so these could be considered as a direct sequel of the film, and several references about what happened in it will appear._

 _- **Emily** and **Lily** are the original protagonists of **Case 39** , without any change in their appearance, age, or personality._

 _-I believe this chapter encompasses the essential point about **Case 39** 's plot._ _However, I still recommend, if possible, to keep an eye to the film, but it is not mandatory._


	13. 12 Move with caution

**Shining among Darkness**

 **By  
** **WingzemonX**

 **Chapter 12  
** **Move with caution**

Matilda felt exhausted that morning, so much that she almost fell asleep in the elevator. She was nodding a little during the entire descent until she was shaken by the beep announcing the arrival on the low level. Between talking to Dr. Armstrong to explain in detail everything Doug had communicated to her, then ask for help to provide her with some additional information about it at the Foundation, and also do her own research online... the truth was that she had hardly slept, and only until then did her body begin to resent it.

She was definitely not in a position to drive an hour on the road, but if she wanted to arrive on time at the hour she had agreed with Cody, she would have to leave now. She didn't even take breakfast, and instead, she just filled her thermos with coffee from the hotel dining room, and immediately went to her vehicle. Her mother would have been very angry with her if she had heard about this, so it would be better not to tell her.

The coffee, as well as some music resonating in the stereo of the rented car, seemed useful in keeping her awake enough to prevent a crash. In fact, she was lucky; much of the road she traveled almost alone. Upon entering Portland, it was when traffic hampered it a bit, and the alternatives offered by the GPS did not seem entirely favorable.

By mid-morning, and between twenty and thirty minutes after the coffee was finished, Matilda was already moving along the street of the Starbucks which she would meet her old friend. She parked on the sidewalk in front of the place, but before turning off the vehicle and getting out, she took a quick look at the dashboard clock; It was twenty-eight minutes past eight; perfect time to make the call she had been procrastinating throughout that morning; and no, it was not the call to Eleven, but another that she knew would end up being a shorter drink, but more bitter than that.

The psychiatrist selected the Eola Hospital number from her contacts, along with Dr. Scott's extension, hoping he was already in his office and did not have to call him directly to his mobile phone. The right thing would have been to call him long before to tell him about her express trip. However, her head had been a suitcase of stuff from the moment she touched that photo, going through the call in which Doug's death was suddenly informed, until that exact moment. And, of course, there was the fact that it was a call that she didn't want to make at all but was necessary; more for Samara than for Dr. Scott, of course.

Luckily, if it could be called that, the doctor was already in his office. Matilda did not go around much and informed him about the matter directly. And as she anticipated, he didn't take it all right. The day before, Matilda had promised to share with him a report of everything she had observed during that time with Samara. And obviously, he interpreting this change of plans at the last moment as an excuse to take back that obligation. Little he cared about the fact that she had used the death of a fellow psychiatrist as her motive.

"You and I had a deal, Dr. Honey," John said in the phone, while she got out of the vehicle with her briefcase in hand and her bag on her shoulder.

"And I didn't say I wouldn't do it, I just won't be able to today." Matilda crossed the street quickly while the traffic light in the corner was red. "I think that what I am telling you clearly falls into the category of _personal emergency_. _"_

"How convenient.

"There is nothing convenient in this," she replied sternly. "A colleague died, in case it was not clear."

"A week ago, as I understand it."

Matilda had just opened the cafeteria door when she heard him say it, taking her a little out of her serenity. She hesitated for a while on how to react but pushed herself to do so.

"Did you know about this?"

"Sure," said the good doctor, remarkably indifferent. "I didn't know him in person, but he was acquainted with some friend. The question is, why didn't you know until now if you were such colleagues?"

Matilda felt the immediate impulse to answer a couple of things to that hurtful comment; a couple of things that her mother would surely not approve at all. But, as always, she had to take a deep breath and stay as calm as possible. Sooner or later that would stop working, she was sure.

She looked around the store once inside, until she saw her friend, Cody, sitting at a round table on the right side, with two paper cups on it. The place was relatively alone, although with enough people to feel moved. Cody also saw her from his seat, perhaps since she entered, and greeted her with one hand; she returned the greeting in the same way and approached him.

"Listen, just tell Samara that I will see her at night if possible, or tomorrow without fail."

"Now I am your messenger boy?"

"Don't push me, Scott," Matilda snapped, somewhat higher than she should. "I'm not at the mood this day."

"That's not new."

She didn't think it was possible, but that morning the good doctor was even more desperate than usual.

"Just tell her..." Before she could say anything else, the communication was cut off, leaving her with the words in her throat, and silence on the other side of the line. Matilda lowered her phone incredulously, reaching to see how the screen showed that the call was over, before turning completely black. "He hung me up!" She exclaimed exalted, turning to see Cody, who had stood up once she was at his table. "I can't believe it. Is he twelve years old?"

Cody smiled funny.

"Bad start of the day?"

"I've had worse," she replied simply, and then allowed herself to place her briefcase on the floor next to the second chair at the table, and her bag on it. "I am really sorry. Have you been waiting for me for a long time?"

"No, take it easy," the professor replied, retaking his seat an instant after her. "The Uber left me not long ago."

"Uber can take you to another city?" Matilda questioned curiously, to which Cody shrugged.

"I suppose if the driver is willing and there are no more than four hours of travel."

"I will reimburse you, I promise."

"Don't worry about it now."

Cody took one of the two cups of coffee and putting it in front of her. To her surprise, they had written on the side with a black marker: _"Matilda."_

"I bought you a late coffee. Do you still like it?"

"Everything with caffeine is acceptable right now, thanks."

She had finished all the coffee in the thermos during the road, but that mattered little. She took the paper cup and took a small sip. Just what she needed, although perhaps what occupied the most was a breakfast.

"Thank you for coming, Cody, really."

"You have nothing to thank, Matilda. The boys of the Eleven Foundation must take care of our backs, don't you think?"

Cody's tone seemed somewhat sarcastic, although Matilda supposed he was trying to be funny. Anyway, she managed to draw a smile on her lips as she drank her coffee. Cody smiled back, but his expression became serious almost immediately.

"I couldn't tell you last night, but I'm sorry about what happened to your friend."

Matilda sighed, somewhat uncomfortable at the mention of that subject, she had to accept.

"Thank you. I hadn't talked to him in years, and the truth is that I still have troubles locating him in my memories. I am ashamed to say it, but I had to look for him on Facebook to be able to clearly remember who he was. But it is still something shocking... that a person speaks to you for a minute, and shortly afterward simply... is no longer there."

Cody looked at her somewhat strangely. Matilda's gaze had focused on her coffee cup, which she moved slightly with her fingers to spin it. Cody may not have the ability to read people's minds and intentions, but he seemed to perceive that she was not talking directly about her deceased colleague.

"Matilda?" He exclaimed after a while in which Matilda had remained silent. His voice made her react and looked up again.

"I'm sorry..." she hurriedly apologized, and immediately began to check her briefcase to take out a folder in which she had several sheets printed on the hotel before leaving." Last night, I talked to Dr. Armstrong, a Ph.D. professor, and asked him to tell me everything Doug told him about this case. Also, I asked the Foundation to investigate everything possible in this regard as well and send it to me as soon as they could."

"Did you talk to Eleven about this?"

The mere mention of her mentor made her shiver for a moment, but she immediately recovered.

"Not yet," she replied blankly.

"Why not?"

"Because it is complicated." She took the file and placed it in the center of the table. "Right now, I think she feels I can't handle alone the case of the girl I talked to you before. And if she also finds out that I'm getting into another matter at the same time, she'll think it more."

"So you asked for help to the Foundation Trackers without telling Eleven?"

Matilda detected a certain tone of recrimination in him, which was not precisely disguised.

"I didn't say it was commissioned by Eleven," she justified herself, a little defensively. "No one questioned me, so I didn't lie to them."

"Of course they didn't question you, we all know you're Eleven's favorite, and disobeying you is like disobeying her."

"What?!" Matilda shook a little when she heard such a statement. Babbling, doubtful of what to answer, and had to take a second to take a deep breath and calm down. "That is not true!"

"Whatever you say, boss," the glasses boy replied, smiling playfully and raising his coffee toward her. "What I want least is to contradict you."

Matilda's cheeks turned red at once.

"Leave that. Yes, I will tell Eleven everything, but when we know more about it."

Matilda was stunned. That was the perception that the rest of the people of the Foundation had of her? She felt again like at school, when in each classroom she was her classmates, most of the time older than her, accused her of being the teacher's favorite, and even it's pet, just because she applied more effort and dedication to studies than them. But that was the first time she heard someone calling her _"Eleven's favorite,"_ and of course it wasn't right; if so, why would she have said she was not qualified to handle that case? Or... hadn't she said it exactly?

She began to wonder for a moment if perhaps she had overstated her reaction to her mentor's words. It is said that brilliant people, colloquially called _"geniuses"_ for stating the friendliest nickname, are not able to deal with criticism very well. She never considered herself of that type of person, but maybe it could be true depending from who in particular came such criticism. Anyway, she tried to quickly get rid of those thoughts that the only thing they did was distract from the important.

Matilda cleared her throat then and retook a deep breath to regain her composure.

"I didn't think the Trackers were going to find much, but in fact they did. Look."

Matilda slipped the file a little towards her partner, who took and opened it, keeping an eye on it. It took a few minutes, but Matilda managed to notice how Cody's expression reflected the feeling of confusion and haste she had had the first time she read it.

"All these cases...?" Cody murmured, and although he failed to finish his question, Matilda answered with a resounding _yes_.

"Do you think the same as me?"

Cody kept reading for a while longer and then left the file on the table again. He removed his glasses and stared thoughtfully at his own drink.

"A shining that gives her the ability to reach people at a distance, like Eleven," he concluded quietly, and Matilda nodded; it was the same as she had thought. "But to affect people in this way, it has to be something else."

"Like an illusionist, right?" Not like you, but something more conventional."

"She would have to have a much higher capacity than just _conventional_. I had never met an illusionist who could affect someone without being in front of him. It would be a combination... quite creepy."

He put on his glasses again and took a couple more sips of his coffee.

"It could be something new that we have never seen before, like your other case. But whatever it is, it's hard for me to believe that a ten-year-old girl can do that..."

"You and I were younger when our skills strengthened," Matilda said calmly, but Cody shook his head slowly.

"I didn't mean precisely her ability, but..." He then extended his hand to the file, opening it, right in one of the newspaper reports that spoke about a person killed in a horrible car crash in which his body literally had been shattered," such acts..."

Matilda was silent, feeling the weight of those words fall on her head and shoulders.

"A shining like this, in a person with psychopathy… It could be something very, very dangerous…"

"Let's not draw conclusions yet," the psychiatrist said, closing the file again on her own. "The APD thing was just a Doug theory; it might not be that."

Cody looked at her incredulously.

"You say a kid could do that to so many people without having some kind of disorder?"

Matilda looked away and shrugged slightly.

"I just say that I prefer not to label anyone until we completely review the facts."

Cody leaned back as a self-reflection to her comment.

"You're right; I'm sorry," he said slowly, and continued to drink his coffee, somewhat embarrassed. "Do you know where she is now?"

"Not exactly. Last night I tried to contact the social worker in charge of her case, but it was a bit difficult. I gave my number to her supervisor, but I haven't received any call. Maybe we should go to Family Affairs personally."

"Well, let's do it," Cody agreed, and immediately took his cell phone to find out how to get to those offices. His expression, however, reflected concern. "But if that is what we believe... we must move with caution."

"That's why I have you here with me," Matilda joked, winking at him. "With you by my side, I have nothing to fear from any illusionist, right?"

Now it was Cody's turn to blush, although he tried to hide it by crouching his face to the phone.

After finishing their coffees, and Matilda a Muffin to fill her stomach, they took a taxi to the Family Affairs and Children's Services offices, to look for Adrian Wayne, the man Matilda had spoken to last night. However, upon arriving at that site, Matilda and Cody would find out about some more than rugged events that happened just that night, and that Mr. Wayne was not there at the time.

* * *

Adrian Wayne was the chief supervisor at Portland Children's Services, at the downtown's offices. He was an Afro-American man, tall and of medium build, very short curly hair, almost shaved. He and Emily Jenkins had started working on this job at nearly the same year and had been close friends for a long time. When the opportunity arose, any of them was a candidate to be promoted to supervisor, but Emily gave him the place even before the contest began. Wayne never knew for sure why, but he assumed that she was already dealing with enough bureaucracy in her current position to also get involved in administrative matters. Luckily, Wayne wasn't afraid of such challenges. The long road he had traveled from his parents' modest house in New York to there, he had made with his own feet and carved with his own hands. But of course, it would be quite superb of him to deny the tremendous additional support he had received from the people he appreciated along that path; precious people like his parents, like Emily, or like police officer Mike Barron, a trustworthy and straight man who had become almost like a second father to both Emily and him.

And now, one of those precious people for him had just died just last night; and while driving to his office that morning, he was unaware that another one of them was one step away from following the same fate.

He was already less than eight minutes away when his phone began to vibrate inside the pocket of his bag. He maneuvered as he could the steering wheel with one hand, while with the other, he took out the device. He slowed down a bit so he could put one eye on the screen and another on the road. However, all his attention had to focus on the screen once he noticing the name displayed: R. Vazquez, abbreviated from Robert Vazquez, homicide detective, colleague, and Mike's friend, and liked to think that his as well.

He felt a small lump in his throat when he saw that name again among his incoming calls. Vazquez had been precisely the one who spoke to him last night to notify him of what happened with Mike, and he had the horrible feeling that he was now calling him to share another misfortune. The best scenario, on the other hand, was to assume that he just wanted to give him more detail about Mike or his wake.

He answered the call and put it on the amplifier so he could listen to it in the speakers of his car via Bluetooth, while still driving.

"Hi, Vazquez. I hope you're better this morning," Wayne greeted in a tone that tried to be jovial, but not too much considering the situation.

"On the contrary, I am afraid," replied the speaker, the detective's rather serious voice. "I don't know if you were informed already, but if not, I thought it was better to call you."

"Is it about Mike?"

"No," Vazquez replied dryly. "Or at least, I still don't know. It's about Emily Jenkins, Mike's friend who works with you."

Wayne was stunned; he hated being right in his horrible feelings.

Vazquez briefly told him about the situation, about what happened at the pier with Emily and the girl she was in his care. Wayne, incredulous, mentioned that he talked with her a little after Mike's new, but her reaction at that time was not even close to being able to give some clarity to such a confusing situation. The police officer also informed that both were at the Providence Medical Center. He was there too, waiting for either of them to react and be able to take her statement. Without his request, Wayne immediately turned around, taking the lane in the opposite direction he went initially, to go to the hospital now.

On the way, he telephoned Nancy Strewell, his partner in the Adoption Department, and who was in charge of Lily Sullivan's case to find her a new home. The last thing Emily had informed about it was that Nancy had already found a family interested in adopting Lily and she wanted to introduce them that same Friday. Given the situation, however, it didn't hurt to inform Nacy about it. She was really shocked and worried about what Wayne told her. He was not able to say so much since he had to have his attention on traffic, also to the fact he still didn't know much either. He also informed Nancy about the hospital where Emily and Lily were, and that there, the police in charge of the case could tell them more. Nancy said she would go straight there, and shortly after they cut.

As soon as the call ended, the music of his cell phone sounds again in the speakers. Half a song later, he decided to remove it because he was so involved in everything he had just been informed that he did not even pay attention to it. He chose better to search between the radio stations if there was any news that talked about what happened. It took a while, and he almost turned around, but he found a commentator's voice who spoke about an incident on the docks.

".. According to witnesses, the woman crossed the security gate with her vehicle at full speed and headed straight for the riverbank. Workers on the docks managed to rescue the woman and the girl, and immediately alerted the paramedics and the authorities. The state of both is still unknown to the public, as well as their identities. However, unofficial sources inform us that the woman could be suspected of having burned her own home a few hours before the incident, and escape from the police escort..."

"Burned her house?" Wayne released like a thought out loud. "For the love of God, Emily. What did you do?"

He still couldn't believe that any of that could be true. Emily? The Emily he knew? Burned her house and thrown into the river with a girl in her care? No, it could not be true. There must be some kind of misunderstanding, something that Vazquez or that commentator did not know.

 _"I'm a psychiatrist and colleague of Doug Ames,"_ he suddenly recalled that he had spoken that mysterious woman the night before. _"He called me a few days ago, just before he died. He wanted to ask me for help on this case, about the girl in this incident. I just found out about his death, and I need to talk with the social worker who took care of the girl. It's imperative…"_

What was all that she said? What was the meaning of all that? Shortly after that call had entered, Vazquez's came in telling him about Mike, almost as if that had been some horrible omen. And now this was happening... Who was that doctor? Did she know what was going on? Did Doug know anything? and now he was dead too. The bodies seemed to accumulate around him for no reason, and he didn't understand in the least why...

Upon arriving at the hospital, he rushed through the emergency department to the small waiting room, next to the information and reception area. He looked around the room until he spotted Vazquez, talking on the phone while walking from side to side. Wayne approached him, and upon noticing the policeman indicated with his hand to wait a second until his call ended. Robert Vazquez was a tall man with brown skin and black hair, with Latin features. He had broad shoulders and a pair of scars not discreet on his face; one in the left eyebrow, and another in the upper lip, on the right side; the latter was the least visible unless someone paid due attention. Wayne always wondered what interesting story there would be behind them, but he had never dared to ask.

When his call ended, Vazquez put his phone inside his jacket's pocket. Wayne, for a few moments, could see his gun in the inner sheath, stuck against his right side. Wayne had never been a fan of weapons, not even a little, no matter how much his father had tried to be. Once his phone was in his pocket, Vazquez fixed his dark, hard-eyed eyes on the newcomer.

"Wayne," said Vazquez, expressionless greeted him extending his hand, which Wayne accepted.

"Vázquez, how are they?"

The detective sighed and ran his right hand through his hair, from front to back.

"The kid seems fine," he explained in a serious and severe tone, typical of detectives with more age and experience, although he still wasn't even thirty-five. "She swallowed some water, but they are watching her. Your employee... she doesn't react. They say she fell into a coma."

"My God," Wayne said, stunned. "In the news, they say she set her house on fire and then threw herself into the river with everything and her car deliberately. That's right?"

"I don't have all the details about the house yet, and it seems that firefighters are still deliberating. However, everything seems to indicate that the fire started from the inside, with gasoline as a catalyst. I was talking to my partner a few seconds ago, and he told me that an employee at a gas station in the center said he had filled a gallon to a woman whose description matches to her. On the river, the officers escorting them to the headquarters declared that she deliberately deviated from the route, and apparently witnesses saw her driving erratically along the highway. The dockworkers claim that the car crossed the safety grid at full speed, without even stopping. You know that I don't usually believe in the press, but in just a few hours there has been enough evidence to prove that its version is correct."

"It can't be," Wayne said, still skeptical, and allowed himself to sit in one of the waiting chairs. "What the hell happened last night?"

"I don't know. First about Mike, and then this." Vazquez then sat down in front of him. "You told me you talked to her last night."

"Yes, to tell her about Mike."

"How was she? Did you hear her altered?"

Wayne didn't know how to answer that. Altered? He wasn't sure if he could describe her that way, but calm was definitely not the right description either.

Before he could answer anything, he saw someone out of the corner of his eye, and by mere reflex, he turned in that direction. He immediately recognized Nancy, a thin, short woman with dark blond hair and black eyes. She wore an executive style suit of pants and a black jacket and was carrying in her arms a briefcase, a bag, and coat. Seeing him, she approached them, resonating her high heels against the floor, and both men stood up.

"Wayne," Nancy exclaimed, just before giving him a light hug as she could.

"Nancy," Wayne returned the greeting and hug, then separated. "He is Detective Robert Vazquez. He was Mike's colleague."

"Nice to meet you," Robert murmured, equally devoid of much emotion, and also extending his hand.

"The same," said the woman, notoriously affected. "What is happening?"

Wayne gave her a quick synthesis of everything Vazquez had told him, and the policeman complemented it with some details as well. Nancy reacted with the same disbelief as Wayne.

"I can't believe it. Mike killed himself, and Emily burns her house and throws herself into the river? All the same night? How did all this happen?"

"Mike didn't kill himself," Robert declared firmly, and even some aggressively. "Don't say that again."

Nancy and Wayne exchanged an intriguing look.

"Do you think he was murdered?" The dark-skinned man crossed his arms.

Vazquez let out a deep laugh, and then scratched his nose with a finger, and gave a big breath of air; apparently, he had some allergies.

"The bosses don't, but I'm sure something else happened. You knew Mike. He was a religious man, he loved his family. Why would he shoot himself in a parking lot? Why would he do that to Madeline and the children?"

Wayne could not pretend that he disagreed with his claims. Mike, a detective, dedicated to his work, his family, and his faith... definitely did not seem like the kind of man who would do something like that suddenly. But, if it wasn't that... what could it have been? Wayne's mind began to work in a forced march.

"And then this," the policeman added, pointing toward the hallway. "Do you really think it's a coincidence?"

Coincidence? No, two misfortunes occurred the same night, the possibilities dictated that there had to be a relationship between them. Wayne moved a little away from them, turning away. The last weeks began to pass in quick motion in his head, including all the strange and suspicious events, or out of the place that he had simply chosen to ignore, turn to the other side and pretend that he had not seen anything... but that now they began to make enough sense.

"What are you trying to say, officer?" Asked Nancy, confused. "Do you think Emily had something to do with Mike's death?"

The brown-skinned man ran his hand through his hair again, perhaps as part of some kind of nervous tic.

"I don't know. I only know that Mike Barron didn't commit suicide, and in that, I would bet my life. And although I don't know what exactly, I also know that something is happening here, and we do not see it.

"It's the girl," they heard Wayne muttering suddenly, drawing their attention.

"What do you say?" Nancy asked. Wayne then looked up at them again.

"Lily, the girl in Emily's care, the one in the car. She somehow has something to do with all this."

Vazquez raised an eyebrow in bewilderment, and Nancy was not entirely far from it.

"That's ridiculous," said the social worker.

"Ridiculous?" Wayne's tone suddenly took a much more determined stance than before. "Two good friends are dead, and a third is in a coma, and it all started when that girl appeared."

"Two?" Said Vazquez curiously. "Which two? Who is the other?"

"Doug Ames. He worked as a Child Psychologist with us. He died a week ago..."

"In an accident in his bathroom," Nancy interjected before he went on. "He slipped and hit his head."

"No, that's what everyone supposes because the police never determined something else."

"Because maybe there wasn't something else!" Nancy snapped, somewhat annoying. She allowed herself to leave her things on one of the chairs.

"What about Diego?"

"Who is Diego? Vazquez intervened again, who looked more than interested in everything they said. Wayne was about to answer him, but Nancy stopped him.

"No, enough, Wayne. Just listen to what you say. What happened with Diego's parents was a terrible thing, but it was an act perpetrated by a child with problems, which has nothing to do with this."

"Maybe we have another girl with problems here, and we don't know," Wayne added, notoriously defensively.

"Hey, calm down, friend." He heard Vazquez speak at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

"You don't know what you say, Wayne," Nancy continued, who also seemed aversive. "Doug's was an accident, we still don't know what happened to Mike, and I assure you that nobody forced Emily to jump into that river. Emily was acting very strange for days, I saw it myself. Evidently, Doug's death affected her more than we expected, and she almost took that poor girl in despair."

"She's right, Wayne," Vazquez said. "All this is strange, but you don't have to lose your mind and make baseless accusations."

"No, you didn't know Emily like me," Wayne said, quite sure. "She is one of the strongest women I know. Burn her house, jump into the river in her vehicle. She would never do something like that!"

He raised his voice of more, and that clearly had disturbed a little the solemn and quiet space of the living room. He also won some inquiring looks from the nurses. Wayne took a deep breath, trying to calm down a little, before continuing to speak.

"Listen, I won't say I know what's going on here; I think none of the three can say that. But whatever it is, it has to do with that girl. Doug, Mike, Emily; they all knew it, and now they are dead or in a hospital bed. And last night I received a call from an alleged doctor whom Doug had contacted regarding Lily, and she was urged to speak with Emily. Do you also think it was a coincidence?"

"Which doctor?" Nancy questioned, more involved than before. "What are you talking about? Who was?"

"She told me her name... Her last name was Honey," he began to feel his jacket and the pockets of his pants. "Her number... she gave me her number. She asked me to pass it on to Emily."

He took his wallet out of his left pocket, and then a yellow _post-it_ where he had written Matilda's number. He then extended it to Vazquez, who analyzed it for a few seconds, before putting it in his own pocket.

"I'll investigate it."

"Listen to yourself," Nancy said forcefully, but not enough to be reprimanded by the nurses. "I know you two are affected by all this, and I understand it. But don't want to take it out with an innocent. Let us first wait for the investigation of what happened to give us some light." She turned to Wayne, looking for something common sense on his part. "Meanwhile, we have to decide what to do with Lily. This Friday I was going to take her to meet a new couple who wants to adopt her, but given the circumstances, I'll have to delay it."

Wayne nodded, and then ran his hand across his face, carving it.

"It will be the best. I don't think we want to put her in another family until I'm sure she has nothing to do with this."

Nancy snorted annoyed but restrained herself from making any other comment.

"While I will try to find out who this Dr. Honey is," Vazquez pointed out, and immediately took out his phone intending to make another call, but failed to make it.

"Not necessary," they heard someone say behind their backs, and all three turned at the same time. Entering through the door of the room, and walking straight towards them, they saw a woman with brown hair and blue eyes, and a young and thin man, with blond hair and glasses. The woman stood directly in front of them, with a very firm presence in her posture. "Sorry for the intrusion. I am Dr. Matilda Honey. He is my colleague, Professor Cody Hobson."

The thin man just smiled and nodded.

"You were the one that called last night?" Said Wayne, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, it was me," the woman replied calmly. "In his office, they informed us of what happened to Miss Jenkins and told us that we could find you right here. We hope not to arrive at the wrong time."

Wayne didn't answer anything, but Nancy prepared to step forward on behalf of everyone.

"What do you want?" She questioned them, almost like an accusation. "Why were you looking for Emily and Wayne?"

Matilda rearranged her bag on her shoulder because it was falling a little. She then returned to her secure and firm posture, and to her stoic and calm gaze.

"We need to talk about Lily Sullivan. In a private place, preferably."

Nancy turned to see the other two. It seems like they didn't understand where that was going at all, and she was in a very similar situation. However, Wayne seemed the most intrigued and eager to hear what those two strangers had to say. Some of this could perhaps give you clarity.

 **END OF CHAPTER 12**

 **Author's Notes:**

 _—_ ** _Nancy_** _is a secondary character of **Case 39** movie, in charge of finding a foster home for **Lily**. As we didn't see so much about her, I will take some freedoms about her personality and history._

 _—_ ** _Robert Vazquez_** _is an original character of my creation. Although he is based on the context of the **Case 39 movie** , he is not a character that has appeared directly or indirectly in it._


End file.
